The Man Behind Closed Doors

by Maria Frankland

  “It’s because I’m not happy Paul. If you were around a bit more…”

  “You’re controlling. You don’t trust me. And you spat at me. What the hell’s happened to you?”

  “I know. I’m sorry.” Her hand crept into his. “I’m begging you to forgive me. I want to make things better.”

  “I think you need some help Michelle.”

  “Of course I need some help. But you’re never around.”

  “I mean professional help. With your anger and jealousy.”

  “I don’t. I need your help.”

  “Michelle. It’s only a few nights since you hit me. I can’t live like this. If you don’t ask for some help, I want out.”

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Tommo’ chalks his cue. “When is it? Your trial, I mean? It’s coming up, isn’t it? I saw summat in the paper.”

  Paul has become familiar with Tommo over his three-month duration. He is one of the few inmates he associates with. Although in for ABH, he has always been amenable.

  “Tomorrow. I want to move with it. The sooner I see the back of this place, the better.”

  “You’re confident then?” Tommo slams a shot on the green. “You got a decent brief? You’ll need one, to be outta here.”

  “I suppose so. I’m brickin’ it if I’m honest.” Paul fires at the red but sends the white hurtling off the table. “Shit.”

  “You’ll be right. Specially if you’ve a brief with half a brain.” Tommo reinstates the white ball at the top of the table.

  “I should never have been here in the first place.” Paul watches as Tommo bangs the blue into the middle pocket. “Good shot mate.”

  “Me neither.” Grinning at Paul, he positions himself for the next shot. “To be honest mate, I hope you’re released. You’re not the usual type who finishes up in here. But don’t raise your hopes. They can be bastards, them judges. All depends on whether they’ve had any the previous night.”

  “Course he won’t be released.” Barry sidles up to them. “People don’t get banged up for what he’s done without serving a stretch!”

  “Who asked you, fucking scroat!” Tommo squares up to Barry who is evidently in for something serious. His cell sign stipulates thirty years.

  “I’m only saying.” Barry steps away from Tommo. “The tosser slashed his missus, didn’t he? His sort shouldn’t be roamin’ the streets.”

  “You don’t know…” Paul starts to say but Tommo already has Barry by the throat.

  “Gerroff him, you bullying bastard.” Another man of weaselly stature comes up behind Tommo and belts him across the back with a pool cue. Barry, noticing Tommo is off guard, takes the chance to seize the other cue and whack him in the face. Blood gushes from his lip.

  Paul is rooted to the spot, wanting to help Tommo, but knowing he can’t or he risks everything. He feels like more of a wimp than ever.

  Within seconds, a siren wails around their landing and eight or so screws emerge from nowhere, using their combined force to bring the three men involved, colliding to the ground. Tommo takes some restraining. Resembling a pit bull, he thrashes viciously, trying to return to the ‘ring.’

  Eventually, the three are dragged off to the segregation wing. The remaining inmates endure early bang up, as is the case whenever anything occurs during association.

  “It could take a while to start properly.” John’s voice echoes in the under-court cell. “The jury selection business can take forever.”

  “At least we’re here and it’s happening.” Paul’s belly growls. He should have eaten something. He felt too sick before they set off.

  “Has Simon been down to see you?” John glances at the door. “I’m not sure if he’s arrived in chambers yet.”

  “Yes. Not long before you. He was talking about plea bargaining.” Paul’s eyes roll at the memory. “It’s worried me to be honest.”

  “Go on. What did he say?”

  “Apparently,” Paul shuffles on the concrete slab. “if I plead guilty to a lesser charge, such as voluntary manslaughter, I’ll receive a lighter sentence.”

  “That’s partly because the costs would be significantly reduced. There’d be no need for a jury either. They like that. But it’s your call. I’ll support whatever you decide.”

  “I’m not pleading guilty to anything. He warned me it’s a gamble out there. Although the odds are more in my favour with the defence we have, the whole thing could easily go the other way.”

  “Well he’s right, in a sense,” John speaks slowly. “I suppose it does all hinge on the jury, who don’t know you. Only what they’re told. If they do find you guilty, you’re looking at a fair stretch.” He looks away.

  “I’ll take my chances.” Paul yawns. He’s not slept well. Guilt has been eating at him and it’s more than the fact that Tommo is doing time in isolation after defending him. He’s been plagued by flashbacks from the night of the stabbing. He’s not sure whether he was awake or dreaming them and can’t decide whether they’re real or imagined.

  John checks his watch. “I’m going to have to head back up. I’ll see you up there, and Paul?”

  “What.” Paul tugs his jacket tighter around his shoulders.

  “Good luck mate.” He squeezes his shoulder as he stands up. “It’s going to be a long few days but I’ve every faith. It won’t be long ‘til you’re free with a bit of luck. No matter what’s happened, we’ll sort it.”

  “God, I hope so.” Paul closes his eyes.

  “See you soon mate.” John raps on the cell door to be let out.

  Paul nods. He’s a bit spaced out this morning. His old life might have been lived by someone else, he is so far removed from it.

  Everyone takes to their feet as Judge Lakin sweeps in, his well-heeled shoes clipping across the parquet floor. The defence and prosecution benches and the public gallery, containing Paul’s supporters and the news reporters is packed. There are lots of faces he doesn’t recognise, possibly the domestic abuse activists and womens’ rights campaigners who already have his neck in a noose by all accounts. The judge nods, gratuitously. “Good morning.”

  Paul’s attention is drawn to the back, where fifteen prospective jurors wait. John has told him twelve will sit. They are about to be selected and sworn in.

  “You may be seated,” says the usher. People descend to their seats. As Paul begins to sit, the usher shakes his head, and gestures an upwards motion with his palms.

  Oh bloody hell, thinks Paul. Great start. He scans the public gallery for Nick, still worrying about his lack of belief in him, but then remembers Nick is to be called as a defence witness and is therefore not allowed into the court room. Alana waves at him.

  “Paul Alan Jackson,” states the court clerk, clutching some cards, “the names you are about to hear called, are the names of the jurors who are to try you. If you wish to object to any of them, you must do so as they come to the book to be sworn, and your objection will be heard.”

  Paul nods, squinting against the sunlight that penetrates the roof. His collar scratches his neck and he is already sweating, despite the air conditioning.

  “Afdiq Ahmed,” calls the clerk, reading from a card. The court remains hushed. The Asian man, around the same age as Paul, shuffles from his position at the back of the court towards the jury box.

  “Helen Wentworth.” A mousy woman scuttles beside him, head bowed. She looks like she would rather be anywhere but here. Paul doesn’t like the look of her. She’ll think he did it.

  “Elliot Carmichael,” A portly middle-aged man makes three. He looks straight at Paul as he takes his seat.

  “Louise Chadderton.” Paul stares at her and hesitantly raises his hand. He’s not sure about this one and he’s not taking any chances. He tries to place her.

  “Yes? What is it?” The judge surveys him with an air of impatience.

  He continues his scrutiny of the juror. Yes. He is sure it’s her. “She … this woman worked with my wife. With Michelle. I�
�m sure of it.”

  “Is this true?”

  A flush spreads up Louise Chadderton’s neck, like climbing ivy, as she realises all eyes are on her. “It was a few years ago but yes, we worked together. I would have said something but I didn’t make the connection. She must have used her maiden name for work, you see.”

  “We shall have to dismiss you from this case.” The judge nods towards her. “Please leave the court by the public gallery and await further instruction.”

  The four are joined by another eight, none of them objectionable. The two excess jury members are sent out to join Louise Chadderton.

  “You may be seated.” The usher gestures to Paul at last.

  The clerk stands in front of the selected jury box. Paul regards them all warily. His life is literally in their hands. Whatever opinion they form, that is it for him. They can all go back to their cosy homes.

  “Helen Wentworth, please take this copy of the New Testament in your right hand, hold this card in your left and read from it.”

  Her voice is faint. “I swear by almighty God that I will faithfully try the defendant and give a true verdict according to the evidence.” Looking towards Paul, she hands the bible back to the clerk.

  Paul listens peripherally as one-by-one, the assembled jury swear their oaths, most of them Christian, one Muslim, one Jewish, two atheists; seven men, five women. He cannot decide whether it is a good thing there are more men than women. The youngest woman, Victoria, appears around twenty-five and the oldest man, Robert, is somewhere in his late fifties.

  There is a momentary shuffle in seats, then all eyes rest on the judge who clears his throat.

  “Members of the jury. My name is Judge Lakin. Firstly, let me thank you for being here today, to assist with the case of Paul Alan Jackson, who is thirty-seven years of age. He stands today, accused of the murder of his wife, Michelle Marie Jackson, who was thirty-six at the time of her death.” He looks down at some papers before continuing.

  “The incident took place as the couple holidayed with their then six-year-old daughter, on Monday 11th June earlier this year. Mr Jackson has pleaded not guilty to the charge of murder at an earlier hearing.

  “Members of the jury, over the next few days, you will hear the evidence of the prosecution in this matter. Assuming the case is not dismissed at this point, you will then hear the evidence of the defence. The case will only be dismissed if the evidence presented by the prosecution is deemed to be flawed or unstable.” Pausing for a moment, he appears to be allowing time for his words to infiltrate the minds of his audience. Hope rises in Paul as he prays this dismissal occurs.

  “It will be up to you to listen to each shred of evidence and witness statement, making notes on what you hear in preparation for your deliberations at the end of the trial.

  When all witnesses have been cross examined, it will be your responsibility, based on what you have heard, to come to a decision as to whether Paul Jackson is guilty or not guilty of murdering his wife. You will also be offered the opportunity to find him guilty or not guilty of involuntary manslaughter. When you are asked to retire, you will be given further guidance on this.” He turns to the clerk. “Can the names be listed of the witnesses in this trial please?”

  “Yes certainly, your honour. For the prosecution, the following witnesses will be called: Detective Constable Joseph Calvert from North Yorkshire Police, Mr James Falen, Senior Surgeon at York District Hospital, Dr Mark Reynolds, Mrs Barbara Fawcett, neighbour of the accused and the deceased, Sergeant Neil Dodsworth of North Yorkshire Police, Mrs Susan Duffy, mother of the deceased and Mrs Monica Redmond, former work colleague of the deceased.”

  The clerk swaps the page he is reading from with another page from his desk. “I shall now list the witnesses for the defence: Nick Hambleton, friend of the Jackson family, Nurse Matthew Fraser from York District Hospital, Mrs Stratton, Deputy Head at Osbaldwick Primary School, Police Constable Stuart Rayner of North Yorkshire Police, Dr James Sowden of the North Yorkshire Primary Mental Health Trust, Barry Aitkin, Specialist Forensic Biologist, and finally, Paul Jackson, the defendant.”

  “My name is Margaret Yeoman QC.” She stands from her seat at the prosecution bench. In her robes and wig, she is more like an old-school primary teacher than a barrister. Her sausage-like finger shoves her thick rimmed glasses back up her nose. “I act for the prosecution.” She addresses the jurors. “I am about to present to you the events which have led the Crown Prosecution Service to the place we are at now.

  Michelle Marie Jackson was a thirty-six-year-old woman. A young wife and mother, she had her entire life ahead of her. As is the case in many marriages, this particular couple were no strangers to marital problems and the usual ups and downs.”

  What does she know? Paul’s insides gnarl around each other.

  “Mrs Jackson wanted to hold her family together. You will shortly hear how Mr Jackson wanted to drive a wedge between them. You are about to hear the lengths he pursued to estrange himself from his wife. Many men may contemplate counselling or trial separations in difficult circumstances. However, Mr Jackson, on what should have been a happy family holiday, is accused of murdering her.” She stops momentarily to glance at her notes.

  “Members of the jury, I ask you to consider as you hear the evidence, whether the killing was occasioned in a sudden act of rage, perhaps as the result of an argument, or whether it was one of premeditated murder.

  You will also hear the defendant’s version of events, depicting himself as a victim in this situation. But you should not lose sight of a little girl, who has recently spent her seventh birthday without her mother or father. Her name is Emily. She was in the vicinity of events on the night of Monday June 11th, and has been so traumatised that she has not spoken since.”

  Yes, Paul thinks to himself. She may well be the one who really knows what happened. The court is silent, apart from the scrape of pencils of the jurors.

  Stephen flicks playing cards between them. “Chin up mate. This time, next week, you could be back with your little girl.”

  “God I hope so. It could honestly go either way,” Paul feels heavy. “I can’t get my hopes up.”

  “Well there’s not a lot you can do but wait and see.”

  “I know.” Paul sighs half-heartedly, at his cards. Really, he can’t be arsed with cards. “It’ll be your appeal soon too.”

  “Yeah, but I haven’t a hope of being released yet. Not after what I did.”

  “That remorse will reduce your sentence though.”

  “I know. Could still be hefty for three counts of manslaughter. Plus, all the families will be there. Wanting my head on a stick, no doubt.”

  “Let’s play cards mate.” Paul says. “I need to give my brain a rest.”

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Margaret Yeoman looks expectantly towards the judge.

  “You may begin.” Sitting back in his seat, he crosses his arms.

  “The prosecution would like to call their first witness, Detective Constable Joseph Calvert from North Yorkshire Police.”

  He has a stern expression as he is shepherded into the witness stand. “Take this bible in your right hand and repeat after me the words on the card, I swear by Almighty God that I will tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.”

  Facing the jury, DC Calvert reads from the card, then settles his focus upon Margaret.

  “DC Calvert, you were one of the first officers at the scene, on the evening of Monday 11th June, at Summerfield Holiday Park.”

  “That is correct.” His face is cherry-red. It is either nerves or the after-effect of alcohol.

  “Can you describe the scene when you arrived at the Jackson’s holiday cottage?”

  “Certainly.” He drops his hands onto the wooden ledge below him. “The paramedics had arrived ahead of us and were already working on Mrs Jackson. Mr Jackson was looking on. Everyone was in the kitchen, apart from the daughter, that is. We didn’t learn of her
presence straight away.”

  “Can you describe how Mr Jackson presented?”

  “As you’d expect, shocked, scared, covered in his wife’s blood.”

  “What did he say to you?”

  “That he’d found her like that. That she must have stabbed herself. He claimed to have been in the pub the whole time.”

  “And did you check this information?”

  “We did. He was there for a time that evening, although the CCTV coverage has not picked up his time of leaving.”

  “Did you believe, at the time, that Mr Jackson had no part to play in his wife’s injuries?”

  “Not at all. This disbelief increased when I came across reports of an earlier row between the couple, which had been heard by neighbouring holidaymakers.”

  “Was a weapon recovered?”

  “Yes. It was still lodged in the chest of Mrs Jackson.”

  Margaret picks up a bag containing the knife. “The jury have a photograph of this. Is this the same weapon?”

  He doesn’t flinch. “Yes.”

  “What made you decide to place Mr Jackson under arrest?” Her robes rustle as she walks away from the witness box.

  “Mr Jackson made the three nines call after claiming to have found his injured wife. As I said, he was covered in blood and in a distressed state. He was the only suspect.”

  “Have there been any other suspects since?”

  “No. All other forensic analysis has been inconclusive and hasn’t matched with anything on the DNA database.”

  “How many years have you served in the police?”

  His chest swells. “Going on twenty-three.”

  “Mr Jackson explains his wife’s injuries as self-harming. Have you seen many incidences of self-harming, such as this, in your career so far?”

  “I would like to contest this question,” Simon calls. “Psychiatrists, not police personnel, usually intervene in incidences of self-harming.”