The Verdict (30 page)

The Central Criminal Court – better known as the Old Bailey, after the street on which it stands – is the most famous court in the world.

It’s housed in a pair of crudely conjoined buildings; a domed neo-baroque structure originally opened in 1907, and its modern extension, an armoured barn built of stone slabs and bulletproof glass called the South Block.

Yet, despite the building taking up half the road it’s on, a novice could easily walk past it and be none the wiser. It’s almost self-effacing, barely noticeable in the long shadow of St Paul’s Cathedral, half a mile away, and partly swallowed in the quiet grey tones of its surroundings.

What fixes the Old Bailey in the memory, what makes it instantly recognisable, even to someone who’s never been there, is the statue that stands on top of its cupola. Twelve foot tall, twenty-five tons in weight, and painted gold, the statue of Lady Justice, brandishing a broadsword in her right hand and a pair of scales in the other, dominates the building, reducing it to a functional, if anonymous, plinth.

There are three ways into the court, depending on what you do and what you’ve done.

The legals, police, witnesses and bailed defendants go through the main entrance on the South Block.

The spectators – the general public, including families and friends of the defendants and victims – are admitted to the viewing galleries via a separate entrance, a few yards away. It’s strictly first come first served; the higher-profile the trial, the longer the queue.

The third entryway is for the defendants on remand. The prison vans bring them in through a secure gateway off a side road, and then on to the holding cells, located below ground, where they’ll be kept until they’re called to go before the judge.

It was there that we met VJ.

He was shown into the meeting room by a squat and scowling female warden.

He had his file with him, and was dressed in a no-brand dark-blue suit and cheap tie. His face was gaunt and his eyes were bloodshot and puffy.

The room was the size of a large cupboard and smelled of stale cigarettes and nervous sweat. Dust pocketed densely in the corners and the white walls were cracked and chipped, but graffiti-free. Christine and Redpath sat opposite, on bolted chairs, at a bolted table with a bolted ashtray in the middle.

‘How are you?’ Christine asked him.

‘I feel like I’m going to meet my maker,’ he said.

‘It won’t be that bad today.’

‘Great,’ he muttered.

She ignored his sarcasm. ‘You don’t have to impress anyone. There’ll be no jury here. They don’t get sworn in until the trial starts. The PCMH is really an admin meeting in fancy dress,’ she said.

She and Redpath were in their court clothes, a uniform unchanged since the eighteenth century – long black robes with billowing sleeves, wing collars and bands, and white horsehair wigs. They weren’t allowed to wear the wigs outside court, so they’d put them on the table like cowboys resting their stetsons on the bar of a rotgut saloon.

‘What’ll happen today is this: the charges will be read out and you’ll be asked to enter your plea. As it’s “not guilty”, the prosecution will outline their case and present all the material they intend to use – the witnesses they’ll call, as well as the physical and documentary evidence.’

‘Right,’ he said.

‘Once that’s out of the way, the judge will ask the prosecution to estimate how long the trial will last. I’m thinking two weeks. It really shouldn’t take any longer than that. The judge then sets the trial date, and that’s it.’

VJ nodded grimly.

‘Do you have any questions?’

He shook his head. He was scared. I’d only ever seen him like this once before, when he’d come round our house after Quinlan had first interviewed him. Now, he was in an alien environment he couldn’t control, and facing an outcome he couldn’t predict or influence. Above all, he was having to trust and rely on people who were virtually strangers. Including me.

For an instant I remembered my old friend again, everything that had been good about him. I wanted to say something reassuring to that person, let him know I’d be there for him. But I couldn’t, in every sense.

‘The judge is Adam Blumenfeld,’ she said. ‘The phrase “tough but fair” could’ve been coined for him. He runs a tight ship. He doesn’t put up with any nonsense. The media like him because he hands out the stiffest possible sentences. And he’s never been successfully appealed against.’

‘Wish I’d stayed in bed,’ VJ quipped.

No one laughed or cracked a smile. He might as well have said he wished he hadn’t killed Evelyn.

We were in Court 1, where all the high-profile murder cases are tried.

Situated in the baroque building, the courtroom is among the oldest in the Bailey, and far and away its most notorious. Many a criminal career has ended there. The Yorkshire Ripper, Dennis Nilsen, Ian Huntley, the Kray Twins, Ruth Ellis, Lord Haw-Haw, Dr Crippen all got their comeuppance in its dock, as have hundreds more. Acquittals are rare, life sentences common.

In keeping with its legend and reputation, the courtroom radiates an arcane malevolence. Its bright whitewashed walls and thick dark oak panelling and furniture have all the austerity of postwar classrooms ruled by cane-wielding teachers, or fundamentalist chapels presided over by demented preachers.

The legals sit at long tables in the middle of the court, facing the jury bench, which will remain empty until the trial kicks off. To the left is the dock, raised several feet above the floor and shielded by a high wall of bulletproof glass. The judge’s podium is directly opposite, and elevated to the same level, so that judge and defendant are eye to eye. The podium is lined with high panelling and dominated by a sculpture of a portico. Suspended from a bracket in the middle of the portico is a long sword in a gold-and-black scabbard, its tip touching the royal crest embedded at the heart of the sculpture. The sword, identical in shape and length to the one brandished by Lady Justice, is reminiscent of a church crucifix, albeit inverted. Some might say this is deliberate, because all evil is summoned here.

The public gallery, which overlooked and slightly overhung the well of the court, was predictably packed. But there was no sign of Melissa. I was glad about that.

The prosecution team sat at the table in front of us. Carnavale, his junior barrister – a thirtysomething woman with short straight blonde hair – and their clerk, a young man in a pinstriped suit.

Although she was using a thick cane to get around, as well as sit and stand, Christine was in the best shape I’d seen her yet. It was her first time in court in over a year, and being here had given her a boost. She was alert and comparatively robust, her illness sidelined.

Carnavale handed us each two lists of evidence – the one he intended to present to the judge and use in the trial, and the other consisting of material he’d discarded.

He talked to Christine. All dulcet tones and purring concern. He was
so
delighted to see her again, he said, and commented on how well she looked, before asking after her husband and family.

The prosecutor was groomed like a lawn. Even his wig looked good and absolutely right on him, as if he’d been born to wear it.

We were about to start. The court clerk – a tall black woman with a bygone curly-perm – was on the phone, managing to talk without making a single sound, as if miming.

Carnavale went back to his seat.

‘All rise,’ the court clerk said.

We stood as Judge Blumenfeld entered from the side of the podium. Draped in silk violet robes and a black sash, he was a lanky, gangling man with swarthy skin and medium-length grey sideburns that stole out from under his wig.

He reached his chair in four strides and took his place. He appraised us all with a fast sweep of the eyes over his lowered glasses. His face was stern, but not unpleasant; a tyrant with a line in good jokes.

Carnavale stood over a small lectern at his table, and did the preliminaries for the record.

‘My name is Franco Carnavale, and I am appearing in this matter on behalf of the Crown,’ he said to the judge. ‘Also appearing on behalf of the Crown is Lisa Perez, acting as junior counsel. Appearing on behalf of the defence are my learned friends Christine Devereaux and Liam Redpath.’

It was tradition to refer to a fellow barrister as ‘my learned friend’. Like the uniform, this was another custom from a bygone age, when the legal profession had been a small club where everyone knew each other.

‘Are you ready to proceed, Mr Carnavale?’ the judge asked, in a mellifluous voice that carried a hint of thunder about it.

‘I am, My Lord.’

‘Please bring in the defendant.’

Carnavale sat down. The court clerk got on the phone.

Moments later the door at the end of the dock opened, to a rattle of keys on a heavy ring. We all turned to watch VJ being brought in-between two barrel-shaped security guards. I heard the spectators in the gallery, the wood creaking under the shift of bodies as they leaned in and turned and half-rose to get a view. I glanced up at them.

And I saw her.

Melissa.

She was sitting right at the front, in the near right-hand corner, ideally positioned to see her husband entering and leaving the dock. Her expression was pure deadpan, but her eyes never left him.

The three of us hadn’t been in the same room together in twenty years. In our first term we’d all gone out for pizza and then to the Arts Cinema to catch a late show. The film?
Presumed Innocent
.

VJ stood in the dock and faced the judge.

The court clerk read out the charges and asked him to state his plea.

‘Not guilty,’ he said.

‘Please be seated.’

Carnavale went back to the lectern.

‘My Lord, it is the Crown’s case that the defendant, Vernon James, murdered the victim, Evelyn Bates, between the hours of midnight and two o’clock on the morning of March 17th. The evidence we wish to submit in support of this charge is as follows…’

He went through the witnesses he intended to call, giving their names and occupations, and briefly explaining their relevance. Nightclub staff, Gary Murphy, Rudy Saks, the hotel receptionist, DCI Reid, DS Fordham, and a forensics expert. The judge followed the list with his pen, as did Christine and Redpath.

There were two surprises – none of the hen party attendees had been called, but Nikki Frater, VJ’s PA, was listed. She’d given the prosecution a statement about disposing of VJ’s clothes. Nothing incriminating, but borderline ambiguous.

‘Next, the physical evidence.’

Carnavale read out the items – the note Evelyn had left Penny Halliwell saying she was at a private party in Suite 18; her green dress, thong, mobile phone; VJ’s trousers, jacket and shirt. Each was prefixed by ‘Exhibit’ and assigned a consecutive number.

He concluded by submitting DVDs of VJ’s police interviews, and the nightclub CCTV. Then he sat down, indicating he’d finished.

‘Mrs Devereaux?’ the judge said.

Christine stood up slowly, using her cane handle for support.

‘You can sit, if you prefer, Mrs Devereaux?’

‘Thank you, My Lord, but I’d rather be on my feet.’

‘As you wish,’ he said.

‘My Lord, we accept all of the Crown’s submissions, bar one item in the physical evidence. We request that Exhibit 3 be removed.’

The judge and Carnavale both consulted their lists. Carnavale turned to Christine, puzzled and amused.

‘Exhibit 3 is an item of clothing belonging to the victim. Namely her underwear,’ the judge said.

‘Yes it is, My Lord.’

‘And you’d like it…
removed
?’

‘From the
list
, My Lord.’

The judge smiled. ‘On what grounds, Mrs Devereaux?’

‘We do not accept that Exhibit 3 belonged to the victim. And we believe it to be irrelevant to the case, and therefore inadmissible as evidence against the defendant.’

Carnavale looked at her like she’d gone mad.

Christine cleared her throat and shifted a little at the lectern.

‘The item in question – a thong with a detachable Velcro clasp on its waistband – is one commonly worn by strippers. It’s designed to be removed in haste. Whipped off, if you will, My Lord – thus.’ She illustrated what she meant by pinching at the air near her waist and flinging her arm out. She accompanied the motion with a sideways bump of her hip, which made the judge grin, and earned her a ripple of laughter from the public and press.

‘Fascinating,’ the judge said, still smiling. ‘What proof do you have, Mrs Devereaux?’

‘The defendant told us he first saw the garment in the living room of the hotel suite. It was on the floor, close to a skirting board. As you will be aware, a large item of furniture – a minibar – had been displaced. Its usual position was between a sideboard and a chest of drawers. The minibar had previously covered this space up.’

‘And that’s where he says he first saw the… Exhibit?’ the judge asked.

‘Yes, My Lord,’ she said.

The judge made notes. Christine continued.

‘We have spoken to a previous guest at the same suite. His name is Joe Finder. He used the room on March 11th of this year for the purposes of a private party, which at least twenty people attended – including a stripper, whom he hired. The stripper danced on the same minibar. Mr Finder said that he and two of his guests had moved it out to the middle of the room to serve as a stage. The stripper removed all of her clothes, including her thong, which she threw into the crowd. Mr Finder has given us a sworn statement to that effect, which I would like to share with both you and my learned friend.’

Christine handed Carnavale and the judge’s clerk copies of the statement Finder had given to Janet the previous morning. Carnavale took it and read it, his face slowly reddening.

Christine let the judge finish with the statement before resuming.

‘We have spoken to the stripper. She recognised Exhibit 3 from a police photograph. She stated that it was the same make as the thongs she habitually uses in her routine.’