The Shadows of Justice (15 page)

The great labyrinth of the legal maze had at last been navigated. Evidence and testimony, speeches and learned arguments, all finally exhausted. Now there just remained a choice of the two doors.

The moment of justice.

The foreman was still standing, head a little bowed, one hand fingering a wisp of beard. In another place, another life, he could have been a geography teacher patiently waiting for a class to quieten.

All eleven of his peers had settled for the final time on these inhospitable wooden benches. All were looking to him,
primus inter pares
of this randomly assembled dozen.

And all the rest of the court looked, too. The judge, high up on the bench, framed by the dancing lion and unicorn. The opposing ranks of the law, the barristers and solicitors of each side. The Newmans on the front row of the public gallery, the Edwards in the dock, awaiting their fate.

All in the gift of this man’s voice.

And now it was time.

The foreman was drawing himself up with all the height he had available. The whole court could see the rise of his chest. His hands were gripping hard at a small piece of paper and his look was lifting. Upwards, degree by degree, taking in the wooden bench before him, still rising, and heading for the well of the court.

He had closed his eyes, just a brief blink, as if in anticipation of what was to come. And now he was looking directly into the court.

Straight at the Edwards.

***

Templar nodded to a woman, sitting below him. The Clerk to the Court rose, her black robe flowing to the floor in waves.
She was young, perhaps no more than thirty, but nonetheless donned a pair of half-moon spectacles more befitting a woman double her age.

“Mr Foreman of the jury,” she called. “‘Have you reached a verdict upon which you are all agreed?”

“We have.”

Solicitors looked to their colleagues. Detectives did the same. Strangers in the public gallery nudged each other. Annette cuddled into her father, face buried in his shoulder. Behind the glass of the dock the Edwards held hands.

And so came the question, the answer and the moment.

“Mr Foreman – do you find the defendants guilty or not guilty?”

Just one more hesitation. A final tease, a last procrastination, as the man took another deep breath.

“We find the defendants… not guilty.”

An instant’s freeze seized the courtroom. A rushing, tumbling, beating, battering silence. So loud it could have drummed on the wood and blown out the skylights.

One, sole, single second, the time for synapses to click and nerves to react. Time to understand, to realise and to know.

The Edwards began hugging each other. Beside Adam, Katrina patted his shoulder and Claire laced around a comforting arm. At the front of the court, Wishart and Munroe shook hands.

A sudden babble filled the room. Unleashed, it echoed and amplified from the old wooden boards. Amongst the hacks there were final scribbled notes and fast fingers on keypads, flashing the copy to newsrooms and on to the world.

And in the public gallery sat a middle-aged man and a young woman; the only two unmoving in the growing melee. Locked together, as though trying to shelter, to protect each other from yet another torment railed upon them.

To their side Ivy, the usher, was waiting, a single ally in the uproar. A reporter approached, but Ivy pushed the man away.

By the dock, the security guard was searching for a key. The steel that would unlock the plate glass and open it to the Edwards’ freedom.

Amid all this, Templar was unmoved. Sitting aloft, scrutinising the court. In his face was something indefinable. It was in the lines worn of experience and the knowing of his eyes. Perhaps a regret at this ending to the case – his last? A farewell to all the years of his career? An empathy for the Newmans, a distaste, maybe more, for the Edwards? And pride or disillusionment with this profession which he had served for so long?

But he was watching, observing, as a voice struggled to penetrate the whirl of noise.

“Listen! Please! I want to say… There’s a but! A but—”

It was the foreman. He was trying to shout above the crowd with the thinness of a voice that was never designed for such a task. The woman beside him pushed at his arm, urged him on.

“But!” he called again. “There’s a but!”

And now people were noticing. Turning. Hearing him.

Templar banged his gavel on the bench, the crashing harshness of the sound a shock, stopping the courtroom in a second. “Order!” he called. “This case has not yet reached its conclusion.”

The judge let a slow look fall upon the foreman. And once more, however unexpectedly, the attention of all was set upon this nondescript man.

He glanced at Templar, a quick, nervous glimpse. It was a check for disapproval, but one which received only an imperious stare. Emboldened, the man gripped the piece of paper, the one he had held so tightly. And now came the reason why, as he read aloud its extraordinary contents.

“We, the jury, believe we have carried out our duty as demanded by the law. We have tried the accused on the evidence put before us and have decided that we cannot, beyond reasonable doubt, find them to be guilty.”

He studied the sheet one more time.

“However,” the foreman added, “However – that is not to say we believe the defendants to be innocent.”

***

Amongst the most garrulous species of the earth, lawyers and journalists must surely rank in the top three. Perhaps the dubious trade of the politician is the only serious rival for the highest of the podium positions.

So it was that the foreman’s words, remarkable in themselves, were enhanced by an additional accolade. They reduced the creatures of the law and media to a puzzled silence.

Barristers looked to their solicitors for opinions, or the guidance of precedents, but received instead shrugs. Reporters did the same with their rivals. And the only answer was more vacant looks.

Unique amongst all this were the Edwards. No longer in the clutches of the court, no longer prisoners of the proceedings, they would soon be free.

Initially, they too struggled to comprehend the foreman’s words. Then Martha’s face broke into a smile and a laugh, until it rang with rich contempt. She relaxed back into her seat, placed her hands behind her head and beamed at the confusion. It was the delight in superiority that a child might enjoy from poking an anthill and watching the insects run around in confusion.

“Order!” called Templar, above the uproar. “That concludes these proceedings. Members of the jury, may I thank you for your careful consideration of this case and your verdict – however unorthodox.”

He turned to address the dock. Martha was still chuckling, playing a hand across the glass in front of her, tracing circles. The guard stood by the door, keys in hand, readying to open it.

“Martha and Brian Edwards, you are free to go,” Templar intoned. “However, before you do, I add this. It may be true that the needs of the law were served here today. But as for the needs of justice, that is quite another matter.”

The next hour would return to taunt Dan for the rest of his life. The image of what happened never faded with the years, unlike the fragility of so many memories. It stayed sharp and clear, as horrifying as the day they captured it on film. Some ghosts of the mind refuse to rest.

From the occasional conversation they dared to risk in the times afterwards, he knew it was the same for Nigel, even the normally impenetrable Loud. In any talk about the notorious Edwards’ case, this moment was never mentioned. It had been censored, shamed and hidden. What they saw would stay with them always, but with them alone. It was not something for sharing.

The media pack careered out of the court in the disorderly stampede of their ramshackle way. It was important to get ahead in case any of the main players in the drama, the Edwards or the Newmans, tried to escape before they could be photographed and filmed.

It mattered not if they didn’t want to speak out. Theirs was not the choice. Frenzied questions had to be thrown over the ranks of cameras. Often, mere expressions could tell the story more eloquently than words.

Nigel had positioned himself at the centre of the arc of the press pack. There must have been forty or so there, the cameras in the middle and reporters clustered around. He held out the microphone to Dan who squatted and shoved himself a space beside his friend.

Amongst the media, Plymouth Crown Court is popular for a happy pairing of reasons. The first is the Pepperpot Coffee Bar on the concrete plaza outside. It’s conveniently close, always refreshing and a guaranteed source of legal gossip. The second, and nominally more important, is that the court boasts but one entrance and exit. The victims of the press have no choice but to run the gauntlet of the cameras.

All they had to do was wait. And wait was what they did.

Dan used the time to phone the
Wessex Tonight
lawyers. Never before had he known a verdict like that which the jury had delivered. Judging by the reaction, neither had the duty solicitor. She called back twenty minutes later, having waded into the ancient waters of the law library, checked the modern repository of the internet databases and spoken to colleagues.

The nearest interpretation the mass of legal minds could provide was that the jury had effectively adopted the Scottish verdict of
Not Proven
. In other words we think you’re guilty, but there’s not quite enough evidence to return that verdict.

The sun was dipping in the western sky, but the day was still warm. From the tower of the City Council offices on the opposite side of the plaza stretched the block of a long shadow. Pigeons paraded the pavements in their restless search for the joy of a discarded crumb. The intensity of the sunlight flared on the glass doors of the court. Each time a figure moved inside the pack tensed.

The satellite truck was parked just over the road. Lizzie wanted a standard news
doughnut
;
a live introduction from Dan followed by his report on what happened in court and a summing up.

It was half past four, two hours until
Wessex Tonight
was on air. Time was already growing tight.

“It’s one hell of a story,” gloated El, who was next to Dan. “It’s gonna be worth some wonga from the papers. Hope all our little players come out soon.”

Nigel asked about what happened in court and Dan gave him a quick summary.

“Those poor Newmans,” he said, in his fatherly way. “The ordeal just goes on and on for them, doesn’t it?”

“Action stations!” El burbled.

The doors opened and Adam strode out. He was as immaculately presented as ever, but his face was dour. He looked like a man who had sworn he would never smile again.

“I have a short statement for you,” he said, peremptorily. “Greater Wessex Police respect the jury’s verdict. But I can add this. It is a comfort to us that, although no one has been brought to justice for the crime, Annette was found safely and returned to her father. I’d also like to say that we will not be looking for anyone else in connection with the case. In the police’s view, the words of the foreman and judge speak for themselves.”

The usual burst of shouted questions rose from the pack, but the detective had turned and begun walking back into the courthouse. He’d reached the third of the six concrete steps when Martha stepped out of the doors.

Adam stopped. She stopped.

“Shit, she’s done that deliberately,” El whispered.

Claire put a hand onto Adam’s shoulder as if to guide him past, but the detective didn’t move. Martha eyed him, the paleness of her face coloured with a smirk.

“Hello, Mr Chief Detective,” she chirped. “Been explaining to the press how the clever criminals outwitted you?”

Still Adam said nothing. Now Katrina wound an arm around his shoulders and tried to channel him into the doors. But the detective had become a block of stone. He refused to move.

“It must be really galling,” Martha continued. “All that work to find those nasty people who kidnapped Annette. And then to have a jury tell you that you almost got it, but not quite.”

Katrina mouthed something that Dan couldn’t catch. It looked like
bitch
.

Adam took a step towards Martha. Brian was at her side, ready to repel any attack. And from the look of Adam, it could come. He was a man who prided himself upon being in control, cool and professional, but not here, not this time. He was balanced upon the edge of an assault which would destroy his career, but may still be a temptation too far to resist.

The pack edged closer, wanting to witness each word. The detective stared into Martha face. His neck was flushed and his fists were bunched into tight knots. The sum of all his furies was contained in these few seconds.

Quietly, the words only just under rein, he said, “We’ll be watching you. Make no mistake; we’ll be behind you, everywhere you go… for what little time you’ve got left.”

***

The doors closed on the detective’s back. With the narrow precision of a sniper’s shot, the single sentence had penetrated the certainty of Martha’s defences. Her smile faded and the dancing brightness of the green of her eyes dimmed.

Brian leant gently over and whispered into her ear. She nodded and turned to the ranks of the assembled media. The mask was back.

“What a bad loser. And who likes one of those? So then, press people – what do you want to know?”

“How do you feel?” came a voice from the back of the pack.

Dan tried not to wince at one of the worst clichés in the journalist’s handbook. But Martha neither noticed, nor cared.

“I feel fantastic! I feel like this is the best medicine I’ve ever known. And I’ve had plenty pumped into me over the years.”

“And what will you do now?”

“Brian and I are going to get drunk – or the best I can do given my condition and my poor liver. We’ll eat well and toast our freedom. And we’ll do it all on credit, because tomorrow I’m going to sue the police for six months of wrongful imprisonment.”

Dan’s mobile warbled with a text message. It was from Adam and could have been possessed of a voice, one which screamed from the screen.

Fucking get her will u

Beside Dan, the lens of El’s camera loomed forwards to capture every detail of the grin on Martha’s face. It was the picture which every paper would print, and juxtapose with Annette’s misery.

Winners and losers, the media way.

“You’re hardly exonerated, are you?” Dan called. “The jury said they thought you did it, but that it couldn’t be proved.”

It may have been intended to wound, but the question only offered more entertainment for Martha.

“And isn’t that the sweetest of victories – if, of course –
if
it were the case? A criminal plots a plan so perfect the police know exactly who did it, but can’t prove it. It’s not a bad form of—”

“Revenge? The revenge you denied in the witness box you wanted?”

Martha hesitated. More quietly now, she said, “Maybe… education. Exposing the rottenness in this country. Perhaps it’s like – knowing how someone had committed a dreadful crime, but being unable to act against them.”

Her voice changed again, filled with a different emotion now.

“Maybe it’s like infecting an innocent child with an incurable disease and no one ever being brought to justice for it. Despite their suffering, and thousands of others, too. And despite it being there, horribly apparent, utterly obvious for all the world to see, people dying in front of them, no one is to blame. No one is ever
found guilty
. In our fine, upstanding, so very civilised society, something like that would never happen. It’d surely be unthinkable… wouldn’t it?”

The journalists were silenced by the speech – a rarity for a press pack. Perhaps it was the potency of the emotion, or the knowledge of the clock counting away Martha’s life. But even safe in the comfort of their numbers, no one could find a question to challenge this woman.

When a sole voice spoke out, the source was a surprise. From behind the camera, Nigel called, “So how does it help to create more victims? What about Annette?”

Martha’s smile faltered. This time her answer wasn’t measured, but snapped.

“Annette will be fine. She’s young, her Daddy’s rich and she’s got her health. She’ll get over what happened to her – unlike me.”

***

The pack remained set in formation, that semi-circle lurking at the bottom of the grimy, chewing gum blossom steps. The cameramen and photographers may have laid down their weapons for a few seconds rest, but all were still intent on the doors, waiting.

The time had edged on to five. Across the city, above the urban backdrop of the ubiquitous traffic, bells began to ring out the hour. The streets filled with people hurrying their way home.

By no means for the first time, Dan reflected on another of the quirks of his job. As many were finishing for the day, his work was intensifying to its most critical moments.

He stood beside Nigel, fluffy microphone under one armpit, notepad in hand, trying to scratch out a script. If he had a draft ready, Loud could start editing as soon as he was back at the satellite van. Every second saved counted with the beast of a deadline breathing fire into your face.

He tried composing an opening line, crossed it out, attempted another and scored through that too. Dan noticed he kept doodling
PP
in the margin.

“How’s the writing going?” Nigel asked.

“It’s not going anywhere. It’s like trying to build a house with only two thirds of the bricks. We need to hear from the Newmans.”

Nigel rested the camera carefully on a step and stretched his arms. “It’s going to be darn tight to get on air if they don’t come out soon.”

“You know, I hadn’t thought of that,” Dan replied heavily.

The cameraman smiled an apology. “Sorry.”

“Anyway, what was that about, throwing a question at Martha? I’ve never known you do anything like that before.”

“You didn’t mind, did you? I know it’s not my territory, but—”

“It was the best question of the lot. You were the only one amongst us who landed any sort of blow.”

And now this kind and gentle man was blushing, despite all the years on the road and his vast library of experience. “It just – came over me. I suppose sometimes suffering in silence isn’t an option.”

Dan glanced over at the van. Loud was sitting in the front seat, his feet up on the dashboard reading a tabloid. He tapped pointedly at his watch and grimaced.

A couple of kids on skateboards trundled past. Nigel picked up the camera and balanced it back on his shoulder. “I’m glad I only do the filming. I don’t fancy your job, particularly not on a story like this. I just point the thing, check the picture looks ok and hit the big red button.”

Dan patted his friend’s back. “Nice try, but it’s not quite that simple. If you can make me look half decent, there’s a fine art in there somewhere.”

El polished the lens of his camera and let out a loud belch.

“Another fruit fancy, Great Aunt Ethel?” he giggled. “Sorry, me stomach does that when we’re hunting. It gets all excited.”

Dan was about to reply when the doors of the court swung open. Roger Newman walked uncertainly down the steps, a tight arm around Annette’s shoulders. Her eyes were circled with a red soreness. Behind them, protectively close, stood the usher.

“I… I have a brief statement,” Newman began. “I – we… want to say that this was our last hope of justice. Of being able to believe we could start again. And now…”

His voice faltered. He looked down at his daughter and pulled her closer.

Annette was crumpled and shrunken. Defeat and despair filled every cell of her existence. The young woman had become old in the two days of the kidnapping, the months of waiting for the trial, the weeks of the hearing itself and the final killing thrust of the verdict. The erosion of decades had done their work in only half a year.

Her body was trembling hard and her face ashen. She was struggling to breathe, a hand fluttering to her heaving chest. It was as if she wanted to retreat into herself and hide from the world forever.