Death By Dangerous (10 page)

Anderson opened his eyes. A familiar feeling. Everything ached, especially his ribs. He'd been here before. Where was he? He sat up. In hospital, on a ward full of patients.

A young female nurse saw him and came over. Hair tied back in a ponytail, a picture of efficiency. ‘Feeling better, Mr Anderson?'

‘What happened?'

‘You were unconscious when they found you. Looks like you'd been attacked. In Rusholme. Can you remember?'

Anderson gathered his thoughts. ‘What time is it?'

‘Just after six-thirty in the morning.'

‘I need to go.' He drew back the covers. ‘I need to go home and change. I'm in court this morning.'

‘Yes, admissions said you're a barrister, but you're in no fit state to work today.'

‘No, I'm not working, I'm…' He paused, then rubbed his forehead, hoping the headache would stop. ‘Doesn't matter,' he said, sliding off the mattress onto his feet. Feeling giddy he reached for the bed frame and steadied himself.

‘Mr Anderson, please, get back into bed, you need to rest.'

Anderson reached for the pile of damp clothes, folded neatly over the back of a magnolia metal chair.

‘At least wait for Doctor Nesbitt. He wants to see you.'

Anderson remembered him – from his stay after the crash. ‘OK, if he's quick, I'll wait.'

The nurse pulled the curtain along the rail to give Anderson some privacy then hurried off.

Anderson took off the hospital gown and began to dress himself. After the effort of bending down to get his trousers on he sat back on the bed, catching sight of himself in the circular mirror on top of an MDF cabinet. His face was a mess. Red and swollen. The cheek laceration from the crash had been re-stitched.

‘Mr Anderson? You decent?' He was already pulling back the curtain. ‘Do you remember me?'

‘Yes, of course, Dr Nesbitt?' he replied, getting to his feet.

‘That's right. I hear you are adamant that you're leaving? Well I won't try to stop you. They've cleaned you up as best they could but I thought I ought to come across and see how your memory was?'

‘What do you mean?'

Nesbitt put a hand under Anderson's chin and scrutinised his face in a way only a doctor can. ‘Do you know how you got these injuries?'

Anderson hesitated. A thought flickered across his mind, only for a moment; to lie, pretend he'd had another blackout. He dismissed it. ‘I remember.'

An awkward silence.

‘But you'd prefer not to say?' asked the doctor.

Anderson nodded.

‘You really aren't having the best of luck lately, are you, Mr Anderson?'

‘You could say that,' he replied.

‘What about the car accident? Anything? Sometimes a head injury can jog the memory.'

It hadn't even occurred to Anderson. He strained to think. Closed his eyes. A fleeting image. Heena Butt's face. In conversation. A feeling of fear. Was it real? Or had his mind constructed something from the post-mortem photo? Anderson sighed. He thought about Ahmed. How he'd admitted nothing. If he'd had something to do with the crash wouldn't he have enjoyed telling Anderson? Wallowed in it?

‘No, nothing, doctor. Maybe it's because I was asleep at the time?'

Dr Nesbitt didn't reply. Only a sympathetic nod. Then: ‘Good luck, Mr Anderson.'

The preliminary hearing was at Bradford Crown Court on the north-eastern circuit. A barrister could not be tried for a criminal offence on his own circuit. The train journey across the Pennines from Manchester Victoria only took an hour. In any other circumstances Anderson would have enjoyed taking in the snow-covered mountains as the train chugged over the top. Today his stomach was in knots.

The courts were across the road from Bradford Interchange, behind The Great Victoria Hotel. Morgan found Anderson sitting in the public canteen. He immediately noticed his bruised and swollen face. ‘Jesus Christ! What happened to you?'

Anderson ignored the question. ‘Have you got any papers yet?'

Dewi handed his client the advanced disclosure he had just received from the prosecution. ‘Are you all right, John? What's going on?'

‘Where's the rest?'

Realising Anderson wasn't going to divulge anything, he replied, ‘That's all they've given me. It's only a prelim, remember. I think we've got two eyewitness accounts there, and the experts on sleep and the reconstruction.'

‘I would have liked to see all the witness statements, and a transcript of my interview.'

‘It was awful – trust me.' He regarded Anderson, who was still turning the pages of the Advance Disclosure. Morgan put his hand over the papers. ‘Stop, John. You need to tell me what we're doing. As far as credit is concerned, the clock starts ticking today. Are we going to indicate a guilty plea?'

‘Morning, gentlemen.' A tall forty-something barrister, wigged and gowned, was standing over the table.

Dewi jumped to his feet to make the introductions. ‘John Anderson, meet your barrister, Michael Forster.'

Anderson recognised him vaguely but hadn't known him to speak to.

‘Michael is from the Bradford Bar. I thought it was important to have someone local, who knows the judges.'

Anderson tentatively nodded his approval, hiding his embarrassment at being the defendant in a client/barrister relationship. ‘Michael, who's prosecuting?'

‘A silk. Hannah Stapleton from Leeds. A right ball-crusher. What happened to your face? Is that from the crash? It looks recent.'

‘I fell. A silk? A death by dangerous wouldn't normally justify Queen's Counsel.'

‘It would if you're prosecuting one of your own. To show you're not getting any special treatment,' Forster replied, still wondering about his lay client's explanation.

‘But I am,' Anderson protested. ‘Harsher.'

Forster shrugged and sat down, clutching his own copy of the AD. ‘I've had a look at the papers, John. My sympathies go out to you, they really do. It's damage limitation, isn't it? A trial would be suicide. We're in front of His Honour Judge Cranston. He's no softie, especially after a trial. We need to have you arraigned today to get full credit – early guilty plea scheme and all that.'

Anderson looked at Dewi. ‘But what about Heena Butt? Did you manage to find out anything?'

‘Afraid not, but you know my views on that. There's nothing there that could help you. The driving is what it is.'

Out of options, Anderson agreed to plead guilty. No one believed in him, not even himself anymore. ‘What about bail?'

‘He won't remand you in custody until the sentence, when probation have done their report. You've got three weeks or so to put your affairs in order,' replied Forster, before stopping to listen to the tannoy.

‘Would all parties in the case of Anderson go to Court One immediately.'

They made their way up the stairs to the circular landing, a central hub where interested parties could wait outside the courtrooms. Anderson kept his head down to avoid eye contact with the various counsel and solicitors who obviously recognised him.

The usher greeted Forster at the door of the courtroom. ‘You're first on. The judge wants to get this one out of the way – press interest. He's coming in in two minutes.' She then turned to the defendant. ‘Mr Anderson?'

‘Yes.'

‘If you'd like to go into the dock please.'

He followed the usher and his legal team into court.

Hannah Stapleton, QC was already in counsels' row. Just on the right side of fifty, she'd once been the belle of the Leeds Bar. Still with a twinkle in her eye, she now had the maturity and presence of an elite performer. She acknowledged Forster but ignored Anderson, who made his way into the dock. He looked across at the press box, full of reporters scribbling on their pads. The public gallery was also bursting, not with his friends and family, but strangers.

This was officially the end of John Anderson, yet those who mattered most to him didn't seem to care.

‘All rise!' cried the usher as His Honour Judge Cranston came into court. A fat, self-important, no-nonsense Yorkshireman. Cranston said what he meant and gave significant discounts for a guilty plea. He had no time for those who chose to play the system, especially at a cost to the public purse. Once seated, he surveyed the packed courtroom, then rested an eye on Anderson.

The clerk identified the defendant: ‘Are you John Anderson?'

‘Yes.'

Stapleton was on her feet. ‘Your Honour, I appear to prosecute, my learned friend, Mr Forster, defends. I have drafted an indictment, as I understand from Mr Forster that the defendant is content to be arraigned today.'

His Honour gave a solemn nod, then gave Anderson a double-take, but decided not to make reference to his condition. ‘Very well, let the indictment be put.'

The clerk stood up and signalled for the defendant to do the same. ‘John Anderson, you are charged with two counts. On count one you are charged with an offence of causing death by dangerous driving in that…'

All eyes were on Anderson. A bruised and broken man. He just wanted it to be over. Not just the hearing, the prison sentence – everything. All fight was gone and with it, all hope.

‘…on the 24
^th
day of January 2012, you drove a mechanically propelled vehicle, namely—'

‘Wait!'

Everyone switched their attention towards the door of the courtroom. Who was the source of this interruption?

‘Who is that?' erupted the judge. ‘What is the meaning of this?' He peered over his half-moon spectacles, searching for a clearer view of the man in a grey suit. ‘Come forward.'

‘Profuse apologies, Your Honour. I know it's highly irregular but I must speak with the defendant before he's arraigned.'

Hussain? Anderson was astounded. What the hell was he doing?

‘Who are you?' His Honour Judge Cranston persisted.

‘Tahir Hussain, Your Honour. I'm a solicitor from Manchester. I was involved in a case with the defendant at the time of the alleged offence. I must speak to him.'

The judge let out a sigh. ‘This isn't how we do things on this side of the Pennines, but very well. I'll stand the matter down for five minutes – and no more. Bail as before.'

‘I'm grateful, Your Honour.' Hussain bowed and left court to wait in a conference room just outside.

A furious Forster stormed in, followed by Morgan and then Anderson. ‘This had better be good,' said Forster.

‘John,' said Hussain, still catching his breath and ignoring Forster. ‘Can we have a couple of minutes alone?'

Morgan didn't give his client time to answer. ‘No chance. You're just here to poach a brief. Have you no shame?'

Hussain ignored the insult. ‘Look, John,' he said, then saw Anderson's face properly. ‘Who did this to you?'

Wearily, Anderson replied, ‘What do you want, Hussain?'

Refocusing, he began. ‘I don't know you on a personal level, but you don't strike me as the kind of man who would fall asleep driving home to Wilmslow at five in the evening. I just don't believe it. Judging by what you were saying last night, neither do you?'

Anderson was confused. This person who he'd spent years trying to humiliate in court, who he loathed, who he slagged off behind his back at any opportunity, was seemingly the only person in England who actually believed he might be innocent. He must know something. ‘Do you know what happened?'

Hussain gulped in some air. ‘No I don't. Like yours, my instincts tell me maybe Waqar Ahmed was involved, but I've got no evidence. But more importantly, if you say you're innocent of this, I believe you.'

Morgan sneered at Hussain. ‘I thought so. He's got nothing.'

‘I don't understand,' said Anderson. ‘Why would you come all the way over to Bradford just to tell me that?'

‘Because you're a bloody good advocate. The best. I don't want to see you throw everything away just because you think it's the right thing to do. Where's the fight in you?'

Anderson considered the advice, could feel himself welling up.

Hussain wasn't finished: ‘It's too early to plead guilty. Once you do, that's it. There's no going back.' He pointed at Morgan. ‘John, what's he actually done? Has he explored all avenues? Maybe you had a seizure. Have you had a brain scan?'

Morgan was outraged. ‘How dare you question my judgement!'

‘He's right, Dewi. You haven't done anything, apart from tell me how strong the Crown's case is. What's the rush?' Hussain was only saying what Anderson had thought since the police station.

‘You listen to this reckless lawyer and you're doubling the sentence,' warned Morgan.

The usher knocked, then poked her head around the door. ‘The judge wants you in court – now.'

Morgan and Forster attempted to steer their client out of the conference room.

Hussain stopped him. ‘Just so you know, John, if you need a lawyer prepared to defend this, I will gladly do it.'

Anderson's head was in a whirl. ‘But you're a witness. You've made a statement about seeing me at Starbucks. You can't defend me.'

‘I don't know what you're talking about,' Hussain protested. ‘I did see you there, but I haven't spoken to the police about it. It's not my style to kick a man when he's down.'

Anderson was beginning to realise that he'd made a grave error of judgement as far as Tahir Hussain was concerned. He looked at Morgan and Forster then back at Hussain.

Hussain offered Anderson his hand − for the second time since the crash. ‘Guilty or not guilty?'

‘Don't do this, John,' said Morgan.

Anderson wasn't going to make the same mistake twice. This time he shook it firmly. ‘Not guilty.'