A Matter for the Jury (9 page)

On days like that, as he lay in bed at home, it would occur to him that perhaps the rewards should stop; or perhaps he should save them up for the weekend, or make sure they ended by, say, 9 o'clock at night. But eventually, to his relief, he would realise that the day off work was nothing more than the result of too much stress. He was working too hard. There was no need to deprive himself of his rewards. He just needed to be more careful. On one really bad day, it was true, he had panicked and had systematically poured every drop of alcoholic drink he possessed down the kitchen sink. The process had lasted for almost an hour, and the liquid represented a lot of money. For a day, he felt better. But the following evening, he again panicked. He rushed to an off-licence on Gray's Inn Road just before it closed and replenished his stock. He had been over-reacting when he poured his drink away, he realised. He was taking it all too seriously. Everybody needed a drink. In a profession as stressful as the Bar, that was just the way it was. You just needed to control it, that was all. Perhaps it was time to take some holiday. That was it. He had not had a real break since… well, it must be almost two years. He must speak to Vernon about it. After the next case.

One morning, about a year earlier, Martin Hardcastle had woken up with a start and realised that he was forty-eight years of age. He had spent eighteen years in practice at the Bar; and had been in Silk for three years; but suddenly he could not account for those years in any detail. It was all a blur. Where had the time gone, for God's sake? He was still living in his flat in Gray's Inn. He had no home in the country, as most of his colleagues did. He had never married and had children, as they had. There had been a few women along the way, but they survived in his mind mainly as images. He had no clear recollection of who they were, how long they had stayed, or what they had meant to him. A large part of his life had passed him by without his noticing it. What lay ahead seemed like an abyss. He was still successful in court, but those who knew him noted the loss of the youthful enthusiasm they expected in his advocacy, and the development of a world-weary, cynical, even bored tone.

By now, it was more a matter of survival. He had developed strategies. There would be no drinking before 8 o'clock in the evening. That had the merit that he could decline drinks in Chambers, and so reassure his colleagues that he was going home to work. He would avoid social engagements as far as possible, unless he could be sure of being home no later than 9 o'clock. That had the merit that he could manage with just one or two drinks away from home. He would drink a pint or two of milk before going out, and copious amounts of water before going to bed, which greatly improved his powers of recovery in the morning. There were still days when he left his junior to run things in court. But he would have done that anyway. He was a Silk. The case was his responsibility. He was preparing a cross-examination or closing speech. He could think better at home. No point wasting a day in court when he wasn't needed, and he had important work to do. Occasionally, a judge would mutter something about QCs having a duty to be present throughout the case. But a suitable display of contrition always seemed to do the trick. That was one good thing about being in Silk – no judge was going to be too hard on you.

Now, he had a new capital murder. There was no case more important, and it came from Barratt Davis, his most loyal instructing solicitor. This might be just the tonic he needed.

15

13 February

‘You mean you're
not going to ask any questions at all? Aren't we wasting a good opportunity? May I remind you that I would like to bring this to an end as soon as possible, Mr Schroeder?'

The Rev Ignatius Little was using his best pulpit voice to sound assertive, but his darting eyes and restless manner did not match, and gave the game away. The man was frightened, and searching for reassurance.

‘So would I,' Ben replied. ‘But it's rarely a good idea to ask questions at the committal stage. There are sometimes cases which are so weak that there is a reasonable chance the magistrates might refuse to commit for trial. But cases like that are very unusual, and I'm afraid your case isn't one of them. So if we ask questions at this stage, it serves no useful purpose. All we do is give away our defence and allow the prosecution witnesses the advantage of a dress rehearsal.'

‘Best to keep our powder dry,' Barratt Davis nodded in agreement. ‘Keep them guessing.'

It was 8.30 on a bright and bitterly cold morning. They were sitting, with Jess Farrar and John Singer, in the lounge of the George Hotel in Huntingdon, a short walk from the station, and an even shorter walk across Market Square to the Town Hall where, in two hours time, the Huntingdonshire magistrates would convene to hear the committal proceedings against Ignatius Little. Ben, Barratt, and Jess had caught an early train from King's Cross. John Singer had arranged to meet them at the George with Little, and had taken possession of a quiet corner table, where the few breakfasting commercial travellers and local businessmen were less likely to overhear them. A large tea pot and an equally large coffee pot occupied the centre of the table, surrounded by their accompanying milk jugs, a sugar bowl and a hot water jug. Untouched slices of brown and white toast were growing cold and brittle in their silver toast racks.

‘I don't understand why you say the case isn't weak,' Little protested. ‘As you say, Mr Schroeder, there is no supporting evidence. It's just that wretched boy's word against mine. What sort of case is that to ruin a man's name with? Why couldn't we stop it now? We could at least try.'

Ben took a deep breath. It was not the first time they had been over this question. But Ben knew he must be patient. This was Little's case, and the consequences of conviction were unimaginable for him. Overall Ben was pleased that Little had abandoned the meek, resigned demeanour he had displayed at the first conference. If he was going to be a good witness eventually, he needed to show some outrage, some sense of injustice, about the charge. But he also needed to remain calm.

‘On a charge of indecent assault, you have the right to be tried either by the magistrates or by a judge and jury at Quarter Sessions,' he explained. ‘But, in our case, it's not really a choice. Letting a bench of local magistrates try their local vicar is not a good idea, for obvious reasons. So we are electing trial by jury. Once we make that election, the magistrates' only function is to commit the case for trial. All they need in order to do that is enough evidence to support the charge; in other words, evidence that would allow a jury to convict. It doesn't take much. If Raymond Stone tells them that you touched him in an indecent manner, that's all it will take.'

Ben paused to allow what he had said to sink in.

‘When we get to trial in front of a jury, it will be quite different. For a jury to convict, the case has to be proved beyond reasonable doubt, and the jury has to be warned that it would be dangerous to convict without corroborating evidence. That's why I think it is not going to be easy for the prosecution, once we get to Quarter Sessions. But that's not today. We have to choose our battles carefully.'

Little nodded in compliance. Ben hoped he had made his point, but he fully expected the question to be raised again later in the morning. Reassurance was a long process with clients, sometimes. There were no short-cuts.

‘What if the magistrates want to ask me questions?'

‘The only question they are allowed to ask you is where you want to be tried.' Ben smiled. ‘You are not going to give evidence today. I will tell the court that we reserve our defence for trial. Once we have got today over and done with, and we have Raymond's deposition, we can begin to prepare our defence in more detail.'

Ignatius Little looked down at the table for some time. Ben inadvertently raised his cup to his lips, took a sip, and immediately replaced it sharply on the table with a grimace.

‘Shall I order some fresh coffee?' Jess suggested, with a grin.

‘That would be a very good idea,' Ben replied.

‘Mr Schroeder,' Little said, as Jess was pushing her chair back and getting to her feet, ‘Mr Davis tells me that we might not be able to call Joan as a witness. Is that true?'

Jess sat back down quietly. Little paused.

‘I don't understand it. We were close. We were planning to get married. I know she must be upset about the charge, but I would have expected her to give me the benefit of the doubt, you know, to stand by me. At least she could come to court and tell the jury that we are… were… engaged to be married. I mean…' His voice trailed away miserably.

Ben exchanged a quick glance with Barratt Davis.

‘She is not refusing to come to court,' Ben said. ‘But whether or not we call her is something we can decide nearer the time, when we have a better idea of how the case looks. Try not to worry about that for today. As I say, once we have the prosecution evidence from the committal proceedings, we will have a much better idea of where we stand.'

A waiter passed by. Jess picked up the coffee pot and waved it in the air. The waiter nodded, took the pot from her hand and marched smartly away towards the kitchen.

Little sat back and closed his eyes. After some time, he stood.

‘I'm going to All Saints for a while,' he said, ‘to pray before the hearing. Would you mind picking me up there when it's time for court?'

‘It's just across the street,' John Singer said, pointing to the front window of the lounge. ‘Beautiful parish church, fifteenth century, some parts even older. Oliver Cromwell was baptised there.'

‘Ah yes,' Barratt Davis smiled. ‘Local boy made good, or bad, according to your point of view.'

‘Yes,' Singer replied. ‘He was born just a bit farther down the High Street, and the grammar school where he was educated is opposite the church, just across the square.'

He stood and looked at the retreating figure of Ignatius Little, which had almost reached the front entrance of the hotel.

‘I think I will join Ignatius in prayer for a few minutes, if you don't need me.'

‘By all means,' Barratt replied. If he was surprised, he did not show it. ‘We will pick you up just before 10 o'clock. It never does any harm to be at court in good time.'

He waited until Singer had left the hotel. They could see the pair walking across George Street towards the church.

‘Well, he is the solicitor for the Diocese' he said, ‘and I suppose a few prayers can't do any harm. We need all the help we can get with this, don't we? All right, it is the boy's word against his, but somehow, that reflection is not yet making me feel particularly relaxed about the case. I have every confidence in you, Ben, but if God wants to weigh in and lend a hand, He's going to get no opposition from me.'

‘Absolutely, Mr Davis,' Ben smiled. ‘I make a point of never turning down a bit of divine intervention – as long as it's on my side.'

‘Quite right,' Barratt replied. ‘Oh, and by the way, I will be calling you Ben from this point, and I want you to call me Barratt. No more of that Mr Schroeder and Mr Davis stuff, except in front of clients and in Chambers, obviously. You're one of the stable of Bourne & Davis counsel now, and we prefer first names, even if, as a member of the Bar, you are exalted in rank above us mere solicitors.'

‘He means that as a compliment,' Jess said confidentially, leaning across the table towards Ben.

‘And it is accepted as such,' Ben replied.

‘A nice piece of evasion, if I may say so,' Barratt resumed, with a grin. ‘About the fiancée, I mean. The last thing we need today is a conversation about whether he can get it up with her, and whether there might be some section of humanity he fancies more than attractive young women.' He turned to Jess. ‘You did report that she was attractive, didn't you? Did I get that right?'

‘Yes,' Jess replied, ‘she is attractive, and a very nice girl, as far as I could judge from one meeting. And she doesn't seem to be inhibited sexually.'

‘So, no reason not to lust after her then, is there?' Barratt mused quietly, as if to himself. ‘Well, “sufficient unto the day is the evil there
of”
.' He raised his voice to its normal level again. ‘And speaking of that, how are you feeling about being prosecuted by your former pupil-master?'

Ben laughed. ‘I nearly passed out when he first told me,' he replied. ‘It is a bit daunting. But, on the other hand, I think it will be daunting for Gareth, too. He knows he won't be able to get away with anything. I know too much about the ways he works.'

‘Well said,' Barratt nodded.

He turned and gazed through the window in the direction of the church.

‘He's not entirely on our side, of course.'

‘Who? God?' Ben asked.

Barratt laughed. ‘No. John Singer.'

Ben nodded. ‘He has a potential conflict of interest.'

‘Yes. He may be supporting Mr Little for now, but if the good vicar is convicted, the Diocese will be running for cover. They will drop him so fast it will make our heads spin. I only hope we can rely on the witnesses Singer is summoning up for us.'

‘Well, they must be concerned about being sued,' Ben replied. ‘But I don't think we have to worry about the witnesses. The Diocese will work with us for now. It's not in their interests to jettison Little unless, and until, he is convicted.'

Barratt nodded thoughtfully.

‘Do you think they have a form of prayer for this?' he asked.

‘What?' Jess queried, looking puzzled.

‘In the Book of Common Prayer. They have forms of prayer for everything, don't they? For harvest home, for those in peril on the sea? I was just wondering if they have a form of prayer for vicars charged with touching up choir boys.'

‘Barratt!' Jess protested.

‘Don't ask
me
,' Ben grinned.

‘I think they must. It would go something like this, wouldn't it?'

He spread his arms out wide and looked up towards the ceiling.

‘“
Oh, most gracious and most bountiful God, we beseech thy blessings on A, (or he may say, the Vicar of wherever it is) who this day stands in peril from a jury of his peers. Or, actually, if possible we would prefer a jury of people who are not his peers. Defend this, thy servant, we pray, against every false allegation, and preferably also against every true one. In thy mercy, strengthen the hands of his most able solicitors and counsel, that they may safely deliver him from the peril aforesaid, and may get him off, to the greater glory of thy holy name and to the greater glory of Bourne & Davis and of Mr Ben Schroeder of counsel.
”'

Jess was pointing at him.

‘There is no hope for you, Barratt. You are going straight down when you die,' she said through her laughter.

‘I don't doubt it for a minute,' Barratt replied.

The waiter returned with hot coffee and fresh milk. Jess thanked him and poured. Suddenly, Barratt became more serious again.

‘I'm sure Merlin has told you about our next case from this holy part of the world?'

‘The St Ives murder?' Ben replied. ‘Yes. I was going to ask if we could have a word about it once the committal is over.'

‘Yes, as much fun as the Reverend Little's case may be, that's going to be a different affair altogether. Did Gareth do a capital case when you were his pupil?'

Ben shook his head. ‘No. He has done a few, one or two on his own. But he would very rarely talk about them.'

‘That's the way of it,' Barratt replied. ‘You don't talk about them much once they are over. You want to forget and move on.'

He paused for a sip of coffee.

‘Martin Hardcastle will be leading you. Do you know him?'

‘By reputation,' Ben replied cautiously.

‘Yes, quite,' Barratt replied. ‘I'm sure Merlin filled you in on the rumours.'

‘Well, I…'

‘He drinks,' Barratt said, matter-of-factly. ‘Always has. But he's bloody brilliant in court. Merlin would prefer me to go to someone in your Chambers, of course. Well, he's the clerk. That's his job. But you've only got the one Silk, haven't you? And this isn't a case for Bernard Wesley, Ben. Horses for courses, that's all it is. In a civil dispute or a messy divorce, no one better. I would go to Bernard every time. But not for crime. I would go to Gareth, if he was in Silk. Is he going to apply?'