A Game of Proof (46 page)

‘Yes it is,’ Simon insisted desperately. ‘It has to be. It’s the only thing that will work.’

Chapter Thirty-Two

T
HE JUDGE, His Lordship P. J. Mookerjee, frowned at the two barristers in front of him. On his desk was a letter from Sarah, briefly outlining her position. She was the mother of the defendant, who wished her to represent him in court. She was aware of no statute or regulation which specifically prohibited such a choice. Nonetheless, it was an unusual situation, which she would like to discuss in chambers before the trial began.

Judge Mookerjee was young for a judge. Sarah guessed he was in his late forties, ten years older than herself. He was a short, chubby man of Indian descent, with a luxuriant black moustache, and gold-rimmed glasses through which he peered at Sarah keenly.

‘Well, Mrs Newby.’ He smiled briefly, a gleam of perfect white teeth in his dark face, an attempt perhaps to put her at ease. ‘Do you mind if I ask whose idea this was in the first place? Yours, or your son’s?’

‘My son’s. I advised against it, but ... he was very insistent.’

The judge nodded. ‘As children sometimes are. Don’t you find, Mr Turner?’

‘Indeed,’ Phil Turner answered non-committally. ‘Though mine are still too young to face me with dilemmas like this, thank God.’

‘Let’s hope they never do,’ the judge replied smoothly.

Sarah had a sense, not unfamiliar to her from judge’s conferences, that the agenda was already slipping away from her and being redefined according to some male world-view from which she was forever excluded. Or was she too sensitive, over-reacting to what was simply good manners, the public school veneer never acquired in Seacroft?

She studied the men keenly. The more she could learn about their ideas and prejudices now, the better. Whatever happened, these men would affect the future of her son.  If her request was granted, she would face them in court.  If not, she would watch from the public gallery, able to see everything but influence nothing. I would hate that, she thought. She hadn’t wanted to represent Simon at first, but the idea had grown until now she wanted it passionately. She wanted to be in there, fighting in every way she could. Even if she failed, at least she would have tried.

The prosecuting barrister, Philip Turner, was a big, bluff Yorkshireman, well known and respected around the northern circuit. Still a junior like herself, he had years of experience and a success rate second to none. Part of this, Sarah believed, was due to his straightforward, honest manner. There were no airs and graces about him, despite his education at St Peter’s School and Merton College, Oxford. He was a farmer’s son who had retained a Yorkshire accent, and it was easy to imagine him, with his powerful build, battered nose and cheerful grin, at the wheel of a tractor, the bottom of a rugby scrum, or supping a foaming jar of Sam Smith’s ale.

Juries, in short, liked Phil Turner and trusted him. So from Simon’s point of view, he was the most lethal prosecutor possible.

Judge Mookerjee, on the other hand, was an unknown quantity. Sarah had never appeared before him. She had consulted Savendra, who’d said only ‘Decent enough chap, very sharp, Cambridge cricket blue, I believe. Rumoured to be a bit challenged in the sense of humour department, though.’

Sarah had grinned ruefully. ‘You think I’ll be cracking jokes, Savvy? With my son on trial for rape and murder?’

Thoughtfully, in his self-appointed role as Sarah’s therapist, Savendra had considered this. ‘Possibly not, no. But if a wisecracking routine suggests itself, remember - for  punch lines, this Mookerjee fellow needs a fortnight’s notice.’

‘Well, that’s very useful, Savvy, thanks. Wish me luck?’

‘Oh, I do, Sarah. Most sincerely and without any cynicism whatsoever, I do.’ And for the first time in their cheerful, jokey, combative relationship, he’d enfolded her in a warm, comforting hug.

‘Your Belinda’s a lucky girl, Savvy.’

‘Isn’t she just? I told her that last night and she slapped my face. Now tell me, as a sophisticated woman of the world, is that the English form of caress?’

She smiled inwardly as she observed judge Mookerjee in his chambers. No flip jokes, remember. Not that any sprang to mind. This was far, far too important for that.

‘There are several issues, it seems to me,’ the judge began. ‘Firstly, the straightforward point of law. I, like you, Mrs Newby, have found no statute which prohibits a member of the Bar from representing a member of her own family. The choice of legal representative rests with the accused. Would you concur with that, Mr Turner?’

‘I agree, yes,’ said Phil Turner. ‘There’s nothing against it in law.’

‘Very well, then.’ The judge leaned forward on his desk, lacing his fingers under his chin. ‘First point, and perhaps the vital point, to you, Mrs Newby. However ...’

Sarah’s heart sank. He’s thought of something I haven’t, she told herself.

‘ ... there are other points to be considered. Most importantly, is this a wise choice, in the interests of justice and your client? It’s not difficult to find reasons why it might be against those interests. Several spring instantly to mind. Lack of objectivity, emotion getting in the way of reason, and so on. Have you considered it in that light, Mrs Newby?’

‘I have, My Lord, yes. As I said, I advised my son - my client - against this in the first instance. But he was insistent - very - about his right to choose.’

‘Which is enshrined in law, I agree. But just because he asks you to represent him does not mean you have to agree. You can decline a case, you know.’

‘I know, My Lord. But I now wish ... I mean, I am happy to accept the brief.’

She remembered Simon’s earnest, desperate face in the prison room in Hull, and her own rush of strong, protective emotion when she had agreed.

The judge nodded. ‘Very well. But I have two conflicting responsibilities here, it seems to me. On the one hand, I will of course uphold your son’s rights in law. On the other hand, I must put it to you - I will say it no stronger than that - that your own emotional involvement in this case may - and I only say
may
, I have no experience of this -
may
mean that you quite inadvertently give a less good service to your client than would be given by a disinterested advocate. And therefore that your son would not receive as fair a trial, as in the interests of justice he is entitled to receive. Have you considered that too?’

‘I have, My Lord,’ said Sarah solemnly, ignoring the implied insult that she, as a mother, was not up to the job. ‘I put this point to my client and he strongly felt - he
believes
- that it will work the other way. Because I care so much about the case, he thinks I will do a better job.’

‘I see.’ Judge Mookerjee gazed at her silently for a moment. Sarah wondered about the expression on his face. Was it sympathy, or mere curiosity - the sort of detached curiosity that all lawyers feel from time to time at the parade of human oddities which pass before them? Was this how everyone would look at her, when the trial finally began? She felt an unwanted prickling of tears at the corner of her eyes.

‘Let us hope your son is right in his judgement,’ the judge said eventually. ‘I wish my children may trust me as much. But there is one other point; the reaction of the jury. On the one hand, they may feel sympathy for you, and therefore for your son. It’s a natural enough human reaction. On the other hand, and I feel bound to point this out, things might go the other way.’

‘How do you mean, exactly?’

‘Well, look at it this way. Were you merely a paid advocate, as you would be in any other case, then the jury may think that you retain, paradoxically, a certain independent reputation. In other words, if a defence barrister says something, we expect the jury to consider it seriously. But if you, as the accused’s
mother
, say something, the jury may not give it the same weight. Do you see my point? They may think, well, she’s the boy’s mother, she
would
say that, wouldn’t she? It’s not an independent barrister who’s saying that, it’s only the boy’s mother.’

Sarah hesitated, uncertain how to respond. This idea had not occurred to her. Then Phil Turner laughed.

‘I think, My Lord, that you attribute too sophisticated an understanding to the ordinary juror. They don’t have a very high opinion of us, you know. Specially not of defence lawyers. The public just see us as whores, paid to tell lies for a fee. So the fact that in this case someone may think Mrs Newby’s telling lies because she’s the lad’s mum ...’ He shook his head slowly. ‘It makes no difference, in my view.’

He smiled at Sarah apologetically. ‘That’s how folk see me, anyhow.’

‘So I’m a liar whether I’m his mother or not?’ Sarah snapped. ‘Thanks for nothing, Phil.’

Turner looked hurt, but Sarah didn’t care. It was not his words that had irritated her. It was his bluff male self-confidence, the way he’d made his point appear such straightforward common sense. It terrified her. This man’s job was to send her son to prison for life. And if he spoke that way in court, everyone would be bound to trust him. They would know he had no reason to lie.

And then they would look at her.

Sarah shuddered. The judge was right. The jury would despise her because she was Simon’s mother. They’d wonder how any woman could bring such a monster into the world.  They would feel pity, and scorn, and not listen to a single word she said.

Judge Mookerjee watched her. ‘Have you considered this, Mrs Newby?’

‘I have, My Lord, yes,’ she lied.
I can’t back out now. I won’t.

‘Very well. Then this court has no objection to your representing your son, Mrs Newby. It is a matter entirely between you and him.’

Too right it is, Sarah thought grimly. ‘Thank you, My Lord.’

Phil Turner smiled politely. ‘I hope we can maintain a professional relationship, Sarah. Whatever I say in court, there’ll be nothing personal in it, believe me.’

Sarah glared at him. His bluff, honest looks must have been given him by the devil, she decided. She was going to have to learn to hate this man.

‘Oh yes, there is, Phil,’ she said firmly. ‘Every last bit of it’s personal, for me. Whatever you say in there, hurts my son. So don’t you ever forget that.’

She walked smartly out of the room, alone.

Chapter Thirty-Three

L
UCY HAD warned Sarah about the Press, but the message had not really sunk in. She had been too busy preparing her case. It was not until she left her chambers, and walked the short distance across Castle Street to the court, that she saw what Lucy had meant.

Outside the Crown Court was a wide circle of grass, the Eye of York, with a circular road running round it. The eighteenth century court building, with its stone pillars and the blind  statue of justice with her spear and scales, faced in towards this grassy circle. On two mores sides was the old prison, now the Castle Museum. On the northern side, on a high mound, was the keep of the Norman castle, Clifford’s Tower.

On a normal morning this area was largely empty. Schoolchildren might queue for the museum; the black windowed prison bus would park outside the court; the judges’ limousine would pull up smoothly at the court steps. Witnesses and jurors would mill uncertainly in the entrance. And that was all.

But today, Sarah saw in horror, the Eye of York was packed. There were four TV vans, each with camera crew, news reporters and fluffy microphones on sticks. The court steps and terrace swarmed with reporters, with microphone or cameras in their hands. Cars were parked indiscriminately all around the grass; the outnumbered security men had retreated, trying only to control entrance to the court itself. Sarah paused, stunned at the sight.

‘Mother of God, Luce, why didn’t you warn me about this?’

‘I did, lovey, I did,’ Lucy muttered, awestruck. ‘But I never thought it would be this bad. Come on, heads down, let’s get through it quick.’

‘But why are they here?’

Sarah found out soon enough. They were twenty yards from the entrance when the first reporters rushed towards them. Cameras flashed and questions battered their ears.

‘Mrs Newby, what’s it like to defend your son?’

‘How do you feel about this murder? Did you know the victim?’

‘Had she ever visited your house?’

‘Do you feel guilty, Mrs Newby? Isn’t it a bit like defending yourself?’

Lucy gripped her friend’s arm firmly, dragging her forwards through the scrum.

‘Don’t say a word, just keep walking. Come on, we’re nearly there.’

As they reached the foot of the steps two security men reached them, elbowing media people out of the way. But to Sarah it seemed an age before the assault from cameras and questions ceased, and they were safe inside.

‘My God! I never expected that. Those questions were so
personal.
’

‘Yes, they were, weren’t they?’ Lucy looked at her anxiously. ‘But it doesn’t matter, Sarah, you don’t have to answer them.’

‘No.’ Sarah breathed deeply, then smiled. A shaky, nervous smile, but a smile for all that. ‘Anyway, this trial isn’t about me, it’s about Simon. Come on, we’ve got work to do.’

Simon was in a cell below the court, dressed in the ironed shirt, suit and tie that Sarah had bought for him. The sleeves were tight over  his biceps, and a little too short. Sarah tried to tug them down, but he drew back irritably.

‘Mum, I’m fine. It’s OK.’

‘Yes. You look great, Simon. Anyway, all you’ve got to do is say you’re not guilty, and then sit there, looking sensible.’

‘Yeah, okay, I’ll try. But it’s shit scarey, Mum. What if the jury’s crap?’

‘This isn’t America, I can’t choose the jurors for you. But don’t worry.’ She looked at him firmly. ‘You’re not guilty and that’s it. Say it loud and clear and look the judge straight in the eye. We’re going to
win,
Simon.’

‘Yeah. I bloody well hope we are, anyhow.’

‘We are. But don’t swear - not if the jury can hear you. These things matter now, Simon.’

‘Yeah, okay. I’m sorry.’