A Game of Proof (2 page)

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 ...’

‘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.

Lloyd-Davies resumed. ‘So on 23rd April last year Gary Harker left your home because of this quarrel, and so far as you were concerned he didn’t live there any more. Is that correct?’

‘Yes.’ Sharon tossed her hair defiantly. ‘I told him I never wanted to see him again.’

‘And did you see him again?’

‘No. Well, not for months. I met him at a party at the Royal Station Hotel in October. I wasn’t expecting him, he was just there.’

‘I see. What day was this exactly?’

‘Saturday the 14th. The same day I was attacked in my house.’

‘I see. Would you tell us in your own words, please, exactly what happened that night.’

So here we go, Sarah thought. She sat quite still, quite focussed - a slim dark figure with her elbows on the leather covered table and her fingers folded delicately under her chin, staring intently at the witness. She has noticed me now, Sarah thought coolly; twice she’s met my eyes, looked away, and back again. She knows I’m here; listening; waiting.

‘Well, it was a big party, and there was a lot of people in the hotel, drinking and singing and carrying on. I was having a good time, and then suddenly there was Gary in front of me.’

‘What happened then?’

‘Well, at first it was OK; I even had a dance with him. But then he got nasty. He said I’d kept his watch when he left, and he wanted it back. When I said I hadn’t got it, he called me a thieving slag and said he’d get it back himself. So I told him to piss off and he did.’

‘All right. Did you see him again that night?’

‘No. Not until he came to my house and raped me.’

There was a stir of interest in the public gallery above Sarah’s head. This was what they came for, she thought. Ghouls. She glanced at the jury - eight women, four men; Lloyd-Davies had been lucky there - and saw a look of pity on the face of a motherly woman in the front row.

‘All right, Ms Gilbert. Take your time, and in your own words tell the court exactly what happened when you got home that night.’

At first Sharon did not speak. She glanced down and fiddled with a bracelet as though uncertain, now the moment had come, what to say. But then she lifted her head, stared straight at Lloyd-Davies, and began the story she had, no doubt, rehearsed many times before.

‘Right. Well, I got a taxi home at eleven - I couldn’t be any later, because I had a sitter in for the kids, my friend Mary. When I got home they were tucked up on the sofa in front of the telly. My youngest, Katie, had an ear infection so Mary’d brought both of ‘em downstairs. After Mary left I made the kids a hot drink and settled them down in bed. It took a while because Katie was still grizzling so I had to give her a cuddle and play one of her tapes.’

‘What tape was that?’ Lloyd-Davies prompted.

‘Postman Pat, I think. I’ve bought all those stories for her - she loves ‘em.’

Oh wonderful, Sarah thought. She raised an eyebrow in cynical admiration of the point of Lloyd-Davies’ question. Hot drinks, Postman Pat - the perfect loving home.

‘So how long was it before you managed to get Katie off to sleep?’

‘About half an hour, probably - perhaps a bit more. I don’t know exactly - I was dropping off myself in the chair by the bed. Then I heard this noise downstairs.’

‘What sort of noise?’

‘A crash - like a window breaking. I wasn’t sure if I’d imagined it at first, so I just sat quiet, listening to see if there was anything else. Then after a couple of minutes I heard someone moving around downstairs, so I thought
Oh my God
and went out onto the landing and then I saw him, coming up the stairs ...’

Sharon paused, and Sarah watched intently. This was the crucial part of the story - was there any possibility that she was making it up, or was it all true? Sarah’s gloom deepened. It seemed to her that a genuine memory was flooding back to Sharon as she spoke, as if the events she was describing were clearer in her mind than the courtroom she stood in.

‘Who did you see?’ Lloyd-Davies asked softly.

‘A man in a hood coming up the stairs. One of them balaclava hoods that terrorists wear.’

‘So what did you do?’

‘Nothing. Screamed, I think. But then he grabbed me, put his hand over my mouth and shoved me back into Katie’s room. I tried to stop him but he was too strong. And he had a knife.’

‘Did you see this knife?’

‘No. I just felt it. He stuck it into my throat, here.’ She touched the left side of her neck. ‘Just a little, so I’d know it was there. I felt it go into my skin.’

‘Did he say anything?’

‘Not then, no. He just laughed, and started pulling at my clothes. I was terrified. He pulled my skirt and knickers down and then he ...’ Sharon took a deep breath and plunged on, determined to get it over with. ‘... he turned me round and pushed me face down over the side of the armchair and then he ... he shoved my legs apart and raped me from behind.’

She stopped and looked at Lloyd-Davies, knowing probably what was to come, but unable to phrase it for herself. The precise, necessary legal language.

‘When you say he raped you, you felt his erect penis enter your vagina?’

‘Yes. Oh yes, he got it in all right. It hurt, too, it hurt a lot. The doctor saw that after.’

‘Yes. And while all this was happening, where was your four-year-old daughter Katie?’

‘In her bed, of course, by the armchair. That was the worst part of it. She thought he was killing me, poor kid. I can see her now, in that bed with her mouth wide open screaming her head off. It was like all her nightmares come true - she still dreams about it now, almost every night she wakes up and wets the bed, screaming. Then little Wayne came in and started hitting him to get him off me.’

Lloyd-Davies held up a hand for her to pause. Then he repeated her point slowly and clearly, to make quite sure the jury had taken it in.

‘You’re saying that your seven-year-old son, Wayne, came into the room and started hitting the rapist in order to rescue his mother. Is that right?’

‘That’s right.’ For the first time Sharon had tears in her eyes. ‘I told him to get out and run but he’s a little hero, that son of mine. Sticks up for his mother no matter what.’

‘So how did the man respond to this attack by a seven-year-old boy?’

‘Well, he shoved him off, didn’t he? But Wayne wouldn’t stop, so he said “Get off me, Wayne, you little bugger,” something like that. That was when I guessed who he was.’

Lloyd-Davies held up his hand again, to emphasise the point. ‘He said “Get off me,
Wayne,
” did he? He used your son’s name?’

‘Yes, he did, definitely. I remember that.’

‘And was it that, the use of Wayne’s name, that made you realise who this man was?’

‘Well, yes - that and his voice. I recognised that too. It was him - Gary bloody Harker.’ Again she glared at Gary in the dock, and Sarah wished she could see his reaction.

‘So what happened then?’

‘Well, Gary pulled out of me and stuck the knife in my throat. He said he’d kill me if Wayne didn’t piss off. Then he grabbed my hair and dragged me into another room. My own bedroom.’

‘What was your response to all this?’

‘Well ... I was screaming, at both of them. I was screaming at Gary to let Wayne alone and at Wayne to stay away. I thought he’d kill him. I didn’t care about myself, I just didn’t want my kids hurt.’