by Vicary, Tim
‘Yeah, okay. I’m sorry.’
‘I’m going upstairs to put on my battle gear now. Lucy will stay with you. See you in court.’ She smiled, and banged for the guard to open the door. Lucy was patting a spot under Simon’s chin where he’d cut himself shaving. Oh no, not blood on his throat, please, Sarah thought. Then the door opened and she walked briskly upstairs to the robing room.
Where her opponent, the bluff, charming Phil Turner, was waiting for her.
The court was, as she had always known, a theatre. Usually, however, they played to a few relatives, idlers, and an aged court reporter sleeping off his liquid lunch. Today the public gallery was packed. Not a single seat was left free. A buzz of conversation echoed from the stucco pillars and the decorated ceiling of the dome. Sarah had to bend her head to catch what Lucy was saying.
‘ ... like a football match ...’
‘Yes,’ she nodded. ‘Why are they here?’
Lucy jerked her thumb towards the crowded Press bench. ‘Because of them. And you. A dreadful murder, a mother defending her son ...’
Sarah shuddered, then stiffened herself instantly. It was not the eyes of the press and public that mattered, but those of the prospective jurors, seated immediately behind the dock. She must try to look confident for them.
And for Simon.
There was a hush, then a further swell in conversation as Simon entered the dock, with two security men beside him. He looked around, amazed, and everywhere conversations died, then rose again as his look passed on. Sarah walked back, stood on a bench and leaned in over the side of the dock.
‘You never said it would be like this, mum.’ His face, already pale from months on remand, had gone, if anything, even whiter.
‘It isn’t, usually. Probably they’ll lose interest after an hour or two. Court proceedings are very slow, you know, and often boring. Just try to look calm and serious. And remember, the jury are the important people. If they like you, that’s half our case won.’
As she regained her seat the clerk called out, in her loudest voice: ‘All stand!’ Judge Mookerjee entered from the door beneath the royal coat of arms, bowed to Sarah and Phil Turner, and sat down. The audience did the same.
‘Her Majesty’s Court of York is now in Session, his lordship P. J. Mookerjee presiding. All those who have business with this court are hereby required to draw nigh and give attendance!’ the clerk proclaimed. ‘Is Simon Newby in court?’
Sarah rose to her feet. ‘He is, my lord.’
The clerk directed her gaze to the dock, behind Sarah. ‘Stand up, please.’
Simon stood, nervously clasping his hands.
‘Are you Simon Newby, of 23 Bramham Street, York?’
‘Er, yeah.’
Sarah groaned. Make a better effort than that, Simon, please.
‘Simon Newby, you are hereby indicted before this court on one count, namely: on count 1, on the night of 13/14th May this year, you did murder Jasmine Antonia Hurst, of 8a Stillingfleet Road, York, contrary to Section 1 of the Homicide Act 1957. How do you plead? Guilty, or not guilty?’
There was a pause. Not a long pause, perhaps, but to Sarah it seemed to last for ever. Oh my God, Simon, come on, you can understand plain English, can’t you? Lucy was supposed to have coached him in this but probably like many first-time defendants he was overwhelmed by the high-flown language, the sheer terror of a public trial for murder.
‘Not guilty.’ There was a sigh from the public gallery, who had collectively been holding their breath. Sarah turned round to smile encouragement.
‘Very well,’ said the clerk smoothly. ‘Sit down, Simon. We will move to empanel a jury.’
Seven men were chosen as jurors, and five women. A minuscule advantage to Simon, Sarah thought speculatively, watching them take the oath. Two were young men with short hair like her son. One wore an earring. But three others wore suits and ties, an unusual proportion nowadays. The women, she noticed - two over thirty, three under - all studied Simon intently. None of the looks were friendly.
In America, she thought, Lucy and I would have spent hours interviewing these people to ascertain their views and suitability to serve. As it is I have to take pot luck. I can object to no one without cause, and since I know nothing about any of them the only possible cause is if one of them can’t read the oath or admits to being Jasmine’s best friend.
Oh well, justice is blind, like the statue outside.
Phil Turner rose to his feet. In his old wig and gown, he looked just as Sarah had feared. The ancient wig was shoved back a little and to the side, like the flat cap of a farmer. His gown and suit were comfortable rather than smooth or ostentatious. He turned his rugged, dependable face towards the jury, and began.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, the case you are to try is a murder. All murders are serious, but this was a particularly horrible and brutal one, and it will be my duty to present you with some very unpleasant and upsetting evidence. I am sorry for that, but it cannot be helped. It is my duty to prove that the man who committed this awful crime, the murderer, is the young man whom you see sitting in the dock - Simon Newby. It is the job of my learned colleague Mrs Newby here - who, most unusually, you may think, happens to be Simon’s mother - to defend him against this charge.’
He paused, while the jury examined Sarah with interest. A hushed murmur came from the public gallery.
‘And it is your job - the most important job of all - to listen carefully to all the evidence put before you, and then to decide on one simple question: does this evidence prove, beyond all reasonable doubt, that Simon Newby committed this murder, or not?’
Wonderful, Sarah thought, as several jurors nodded solemnly. They’re eating out of his hand already. The moment that man opened his mouth they had him placed; as a decent, dependable Yorkshireman, one of their own. And he’s telling them my son’s a murderer.
‘It’s as simple as that,’ Phil Turner continued calmly. ‘And my answer is equally simple: does the evidence prove that Simon Newby is guilty? Yes, it does.’
He lifted one foot comfortably onto the bench beside him, like a countryman leaning on a fence, telling a story to a group of friends.
‘Let me outline it for you. Firstly, the murder itself. You will hear police officers and forensic scientists describe it all in great detail. But the basics are these. Early on the morning of Friday 14th May a man was walking his dog on a footpath near the river Ouse south of York, when the dog found something in the bushes. When the man looked he saw the body of a young woman. He called the police and later that day they identified the body as that of Jasmine Hurst, a young woman of 23 who lived with her current boyfriend David Brodie about half a mile from where her body was found.
‘The forensic scientists will tell you, members of the jury, exactly how poor Jasmine was killed. But in simple layman’s terms, she died because her throat was cut. Her throat was cut with a large, serrated knife by someone who was standing behind her, probably pulling her head back by her hair to expose her neck. Naturally, once her throat was cut, she died very swiftly.
‘But her ordeal was not swift, ladies and gentlemen. The cuts on her arms, the bruising to her face and genital area show that before she was killed she was beaten and raped. This young woman suffered a prolonged, brutal attack in which her death was only the final stage.’
The jury watched him, riveted. He looked at each of them briefly, then resumed his story.
‘So, how do we know who did it? Well, firstly, there were a number of footprints near the body. Footprints, in particular, of a man’s training shoe, size 9. You will know that all training shoes have different patterns on the sole, and you will hear that there are forensic experts who make a study of these. You will hear, too, that in Simon Newby’s house the police found a pair of training shoes whose size and make exactly matched these footprints by the body. And you will hear that one of those training shoes, the shoes found in Simon Newby’s house, was stained with the blood of Jasmine H
urst.
‘Secondly, you will hear evidence that Jasmine Hurst was raped, and that semen was found in her vagina. You will hear forensic evidence that the DNA in that semen matches exactly the DNA found in a sample taken from the accused, Simon Newby. Proof conclusive, you may think. Her blood on his training shoe, his semen in her body. That is what the prosecution believe.’
He paused, and looked down thoughtfully at Sarah. Long enough for the jury to examine her too. Sarah willed her face to show no emotion whatsoever.
‘But Mr Newby pleads not guilty, as is his legal right, and so it is my duty to call all this detailed evidence before you so that his defence can question it.’
Which makes it my fault, Sarah thought. Well done, Phil. None of us would have to go through any of this excruciating torture if only I’d told my son to own up and plead guilty. That’s what he wants them to think. That’s what they are thinking, now.
Phil Turner’s calm, reassuring voice continued, inviting the jury to trust him to lead them through this maze of guilt and evil.
‘But why, you may ask, would anyone do such a dreadful thing? Was this a random attack or was there a motive? This is something the police always ask. Well, yes, there certainly was a motive - a very basic motive, jealousy. It’s a simple, age old story. You will hear that Simon Newby was a former boyfriend of Jasmine Hurst. They had lived together for several months. Then Jasmine met another young man, David Brodie, and went to live with him. No crime in that; it happens all the time. But it made young Simon jealous. A quite natural, understandable emotion. Except that, unfortunately, his jealousy got out of hand. He couldn’t take no for an answer. You will hear evidence that he followed Jasmine around, pestering her to come back to him; and that he threatened her new boyfriend with violence.
‘Then, the very day before she died, Simon met her again, and persuaded her to come to his home. But they didn’t make up, as he probably hoped: they quarreled, violently. You will hear a witness who saw them arguing bitterly in the street outside his home; a quarrel in which Simon punched his former girlfriend in the face.
‘And finally you will hear what Simon did the day after this quarrel, after he had punched her in the face. Was he at home when the police came to question him about the body they had found? No, members of the jury, he wasn’t. He had run away in the middle of the night - the same night that Jasmine was killed. No one knew where he’d had gone or if he ever intended to come back. It was only by good detective work that the police found him, a fortnight later, in Scarborough. And you will hear that when he was arrested and interviewed about Jasmine’s death, the first thing he told the police was that he hadn’t seen Jasmine for weeks. When in fact, a witness saw him hit her on the day of her death.
‘So that, in brief, is the evidence I shall lay before you, members of the jury. Evidence of a terrible crime motivated by sexual jealousy. Evidence that Simon Newby was the last person known to see Jasmine Hurst alive, and that he was using violence towards her then. Evidence that he disappeared on the night she was murdered, and lied when the police interviewed him about her death. And most conclusive of all, forensic evidence that his training shoe, with her blood on it, matched the footprints found at the scene of the crime; and his semen was found in her bruised vagina.
‘It’s a terrible, damning story. However, you must not simply take my word for it. It’s my task to prove that all this is true, and it is for you to judge, after listening to all the evidence, if I have succeeded. If I have not - if there is still any doubt in your minds about Simon Newby’s guilt - then he gets the benefit of that doubt. Simon Newby does not have to prove anything. He says he is not guilty and that is all he is required to say. It is for me, representing the prosecution, to prove to you that he is.’
He paused, surveying each of the jurors in turn, drawing them into his confidence.
‘And so now I would like to call my first witness.’
Why bother? Sarah thought gloomily, watching the jury. As far as they’re concerned you could take him out and hang him now. You may say he’s innocent until proven guilty but none of them listened to that. It’s all over in the first half hour. The rest is just going to be a charade.
Chapter Thirty-Four
TERRY TOOK the photofits of the Irishman, Sean, to Helen Steersby. To his delight, the girl said, yes, her attacker had looked something like that. Then he played her a set of tapes of men all speaking in different accents. She picked one from southern Ireland as nearest to the voice of her attacker. Hardly a positive identification, but a satisfying morning’s work nonetheless.
If Sean had been in York during Gary’s trial, then he was a suspect for all three remaining assaults on women - Clayton, Whitaker, and Steersby. And, intriguingly, when his mate Gary had raped Sharon Gilbert, he’d claimed he’d spent the evening with Sean. What was all that about, Terry wondered. A competition to see which of them could treat women worst?
On his way to lunch, he heard a commotion around the custody sergeant’s desk..
‘He fucking raped me, he did! You all know that but you don’t do nowt, do yer?’
‘Ah, shut your trap, you daft cow! I want her prosecuted, I do, for assault.’
‘All right, stow it, the pair of you. You’ll get your turn ...’
‘Him bloody sue me? Come over here, shitface, I’ll rip your fucking eyes out!’
It was not the beauty of the language that attracted his attention, but the voices. He recognized them both. Turning swiftly along the corridor, he saw two uniformed constables struggling to hold Gary Harker, while a WPC kept a firm grip on Sharon Gilbert. Sergeant Chisholm was booking her in.
‘What’s up, Nick?’ he asked a constable holding Gary.
‘Brawl in a pub, sir. She claims he hit her ...’
‘Oh yeah, right,’ said Gary belligerently. ‘And I did this to myself too, did I?’
Terry noted several trails of blood below Gary’s left eye. The sight filled him with sadistic glee. ‘Cut yourself shaving, Gary, did you?’ he enquired.
The question enraged Gary, who elbowed one constable in the face, broke loose from the other, and was halfway to Terry before the two constables tripped him, smashed him face down on the floor and cuffed his hands behind his back.
‘See what he’s like?’ Sharon screamed. ‘You know what he did, Mr Bateson, don’t you?’
‘I know, Sharon, yes.’ He turned to the constables. ‘Book him for assault while resisting arrest. Then fill me in on this case, OK? In my office upstairs.’
An hour later he interviewed Gary with Nick Burrows, one of the arresting constables, while Harry Easby interviewed Sharon with the other.
‘So how did this happen, Gary?’
‘She just sunk her nails in, didn’t she? Bitch!’
‘And you were doing nothing to her, of course?’
‘Have you seen them nails? You ought to do her for wearing offensive weapons.’
‘Let’s just take it from the beginning, Gary, shall we? Where did this argument start?’
The story in itself was simple. Gary claimed to have been in the Lighthorseman when Sharon came in with a girlfriend. Dressed, as Gary put it, ‘for a day’s work on her back.’ He had approached her, he said, in a friendly spirit to buy her a drink and make up for the past, whereupon she had tried to tear his eyes out with her dagger-like nails.
‘No excuse, she just went for me. I bet a dozen witnesses saw it. So do your job, Mr Bateson. I want that bitch charged with assault.’
Reluctantly, Terry ordered the constables to get witness statements. When they returned, Terry contemplated them gloomily. Two witnesses had seen Sharon scratch Gary’s face. Neither had seen him hit her.
‘It’s quite monstrous, sir, I agree,’ Nick Burrows said. ‘But if he persists with this complaint we’ll have to charge her with assault, won’t we? We’ve no choice.’
‘He assaulted you too, constable. I saw it. We all did.’
‘Yes, but in a police stati
on, sir. The lawyers will say we provoked him.’
Harry Easby had interviewed Sharon. He looked shattered by the whole experience; why, Terry could not at first understand.
‘She says he was making offensive remarks and tried to put his hand up her skirt,’ Harry said. ‘That’s as far as the physical stuff goes. She claims her girlfriend Cheryl will support her so I’ve sent a car to fetch her in now. But the real problem isn’t that, boss.’
‘What is it, then?’
‘She’s gone hysterical, she really has. What turned him up so much, was that she’s getting a reporter from some TV program - Rough Justice, I think - to interview her about her case. Apparently this reporter’s up here to cover the Newby trial and Sharon went to meet her in that pub for lunch. She claims because you’ve got new evidence the CPS ought to go for a second trial. You know there’s been talk about that in the papers recently - saying the prosecution ought to have a second go after an acquittal in serious cases where major evidence comes to light ...’
‘We should be so lucky.’ Terry laughed bitterly. ‘Hot air. It’ll never happen.’
‘Well, maybe not, but that’s what journalists love, talk, isn’t it? Anyway Sharon thinks hers could be a sort of test case on TV. You know - ‘ the law needs changing to prevent injustice’ - that kind of thing. Bad publicity for us.’
‘Wonderful,’ said Terry gloomily. ‘And guess who’s in the firing line. Did she scratch him on purpose, then, as a publicity stunt?’
‘Could be,’ Harry shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’
Terry could see the embarrassment, the hours of paperwork and media interviews, stretching ahead of him. If the case ever did appear on TV he’d be the joke of the nation.
An awful thought struck him.
‘This reporter wasn’t there in the pub? Filming the fight while Sharon set it up?’
‘No, thank God. But she turned up soon after. She’s got the story by now, for sure. The whole pub was buzzing with it.’
‘Bloody hell fire.’ Terry gazed at Harry in despair. ‘And Harker wants us to charge her with assault, which makes me look dafter than ever. I’ll be on telly as the dumbo detective who not only failed to get a rape conviction, but prosecuted the victim for assault. Brilliant. Your caring sharing police force.’
