The Witness: A Novel (44 page)

She needed a break. It was all catching up with her, the nights of poor sleep in the judge’s chambers, the days of mental exhaustion, parrying the endless questions of counsel. She looked around the courtroom. There was Brian, her gentle giant, who had nursed her back to health with food too tasty to resist, held her accountable for her actions, and guided her into behaving responsibly. She saw Hunt, confrontational Hunt, who would never give an inch to anybody. She thought about Danny—his laughter stilled, fighting a silent battle. Behind her was Sergeant Casey, who understood what it felt like to face death, who was clear in his purpose and had helped her to be clear in hers. Her eyes rested on Colin. He had made her forget, however briefly, that she was scarred and would never be loved.

So many times she had been discouraged. When she wanted to go home, Colin had brought her a book about Churchill, who had never given in. She had asked Sergeant Casey how to fight something invisible, and he had advised her to focus on what she could see and to keep her body ready for the conflict. She had told Padre Goodwyn that she had
done her best, and he had told her that God was with her.

Alford’s voice interrupted her reverie. “Miss Jeffries, you have caused serious charges to be laid against my client. Would you like to hear the list of counter-charges my client intends to lay against you?”

She raised her chin. “Yes, sir, I would.”

He raised his eyebrows slightly. “Perjury, Miss Jeffries. Giving false evidence. Slander, the most malicious I have encountered. These are only a few of the offences. I will place
you
in the dock next time.”

The dock—the monster was sitting there, looking elegant in his expensive suit, an attentive expression on his face. If he went free, other young women, currently going about their daily lives with no warning that a monster was coming, would be in mortal danger. He had caused incalculable fear, pain, and sorrow. Colin had never condemned her. He had held her when she cried. He had always believed in her. Sergeant Casey—formidable in his anger, frightening in his focus—had gripped the pillow for her to hit. She thought about her family, her long distance lifeline, so deeply missed for so many months. Her daddy would say that it was time for her to step up to the plate. She pushed herself to her feet, lifting her chin defiantly and raising her voice so the microphone wouldn’t be necessary. “Then bring it on, Mr. Alford!” she shot back. “I’m a Texan, and I won’t quit. I’ll fight for my integrity. As God is my witness, I did not lie. I remember—”

Judge Thomas interrupted Alford’s objection. “You invited this, Mr. Alford.”

“—everything your client did to me, from the first blow until I lost consciousness. I haven’t forgotten the fear, and I haven’t forgotten the pain, and I’ll never forget—” she turned toward Scott and pointed her finger at him—“his face! Do you have a daughter, Mr. Alford? God help her, if you let her anywhere near your client!”

“I’ll see you in court,” Alford said coldly. “Your Honour, I have no further questions for this witness.”

“Mr. Benjamin, would you care to re-examine?” Judge Thomas asked.

“Yes, Your Honour,” answered Mr. Benjamin, bowing as tradition dictated. “Do you need a moment, Miss Jeffries?”

“No, sir, you’d better do it now.”

“Miss Jeffries, when you first appeared in this court, you took an oath to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Have you upheld that oath?”

“Yes, sir, I have.”

“In all your testimony, have you uttered any fabrication or falsehood?”

“No, sir, not one.”

“Were you forced to testify in this case?”

“No, sir, I was not.”

“Have you told this Court everything you can recall about the events that took place on September 14, 1998?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Miss Jeffries, did William Cecil Crighton Scott hit you?—Kick you?—Cut you?”

She answered yes to each question.

“Did he in fact beat you so brutally that you had multiple broken bones?—Did he cause massive bruising?—Internal injuries so severe that your spleen was removed and repair to other internal organs was required?”

Again she responded affirmatively in each case.

“Were you in excruciating pain?”

“Yes, sir. At the end, it hurt so much to breathe that I stopped screaming.”

“Were your injuries so extensive that they necessitated intensive care in hospital?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did William Cecil Crighton Scott rape you, Miss Jeffries?”

“Yes, he did.”

“Did he kick you in the head, causing you to lose consciousness?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you absolutely and completely certain—no doubt whatsoever—that William Cecil Crighton Scott was the man who committed these heinous offences against you?”

“Yes, sir. When I sleep, his face is in my dreams. Every time I look in the mirror, my scars look back at me. He was a monster. I’ll never forget, not ever.”

“That concludes our examination of this witness, Your Honour,” said Mr. Benjamin, bowing to the judge and sitting down.

Judge Thomas glanced at defence counsel, who shook his head. The judge then turned to Jenny. “Miss Jeffries, thank you for your assistance. You are excused. You may stand down. Court is adjourned until half ten tomorrow morning. Off we go.” He left the bench.

Was it finally over? She had heard the judge’s words, but they hadn’t registered. She was so exhausted she could not have testified to the hour or even to the day. She saw the sergeant holding out his hand to her, and she couldn’t think what she was supposed to do.

“Time to go, Miss Jeffries.”

His voice was firm, and automatically she obeyed. She found herself on Judge Lloyd’s sofa, and she curled up and closed her eyes.

“Don’t wake her,” Sinclair said when he arrived. “Just tell her she did brilliantly. I’ll phone her family later. I’ll be off with the decoy straightaway.” He smiled. “It’s a bit like being the Pied Piper, at least for the press. Ring me when you’ve landed.”

The protection team wouldn’t leave until after the entire courthouse had cleared, so Andrews brought pizza, and Casey woke her to take a few bites. The men changed out of their uniforms, and Casey decided that a raincoat and hat were sufficient to conceal her identity. At the appointed time, the armed police outside the judge’s door accompanied them to the waiting vehicle.

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W
hen they returned to the flat, Casey rang Sinclair. Hunt volunteered to take the night watch. “So our chef will be rested and ready for kitchen duty tomorrow,” he joked. Casey didn’t wait to hear Davies’ response.

The flat was quiet. Hunt made himself the first of many cups of tea and went into the sitting room. He recalled his early days with the team, how Davies had threatened to throttle him—more than once—when he’d whinged about being stuck there. Shut it until you hear her tell it, he’d said. Then you’ll know what you’re here for. Well, he’d heard it now, heard Little Bit describe everything and heard those bloody briefs at court maul her.

Coppers saw things other persons didn’t—beastly things—but those who lasted on the Job learnt to insulate themselves. They had to pay attention on the outside but stay detached on the inside so they could process what they saw and take the appropriate response. It was a struggle; some nights his PC father hadn’t gone down the pub. Sat by himself instead in the front room. In the dark. “Leave me. It’ll not help to bring the heartache home,” was all he had said.

Now he was living in a flat with someone who’d been through bloody hell. What should he do? What Casey had done in court when she’d fainted: Get her back on her feet. Help her get on with it. So the rest of them could also. Easier said than.

J
enny nearly slept the clock round. Finally Sergeant Casey woke her with a cup of tea. Another list for her journal:
Uses for British Tea
. It put you to sleep, woke you up, soothed frazzled nerves, calmed upset feelings, welcomed visitors, and warmed cold hands. Did it reduce swelling? Assist in the quest for world peace? She felt like she had jet lag, and it probably cured that, too. “Have you had breakfast?”

“We’ve had lunch.”

She put on a dressing gown, sipped some hot soup, and snacked on some biscuits. After a long nap, she showered and dressed.

When Colin came by after dinner, she was wearing a bright turquoise t-shirt with blue jeans but there was no colour in her face. She greeted him briefly and then went back to bed, not bothering to change into her pyjamas.

“Must have been something in the food,” Hunt joked. Their mission—getting her to and from court safely—had been a success, and he was still in good spirits.

“Did you medicate her?” Sinclair asked Casey.

“No, sir, there’s a natural letdown after a mission,” he explained. “Combine that with physical exhaustion, and you have the thousandmetre stare. Men who’ve been in combat for a long time sometimes get it. She gave it all she had, sir.”

“I’m still furious that so much was required,” Sinclair said.

“She has the ability to stand in the door,” Casey added. “I respect that.”

“That another of your military expressions?” Hunt asked.

Casey smiled. He enjoyed baiting Hunt; he always bit, hook, line, and sinker. “Airborne troops coined it. When you’re ready to jump, you stand in the door. You’re committed 100%.”

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T
he second day passed much as the first. The third day her numbness was gone. She thought about her testimony, and the memories hurt. “It was a feeding frenzy, like letting a pack of ravenous dogs loose with the
Easter bunny! Alford—Rhoads—they beat me up in front of everybody.”

“I’d like to beat them up in front of everybody,” Hunt said.

“I’d rather do it in private,” Casey said.

“They hit below the belt,” Brian agreed, “but you played hurt, like the rugby blokes I see on TV. I was proud of you.”

“But they sent people to Texas—they dug up all that dirt about me!”

“What dirt? Sounded normal,” was Hunt’s opinion. “I do have a question, though. If you loved that bloke, why didn’t you have it off with him?”

Casey frowned.

“What! Did I go too far?”

“No, it’s okay,” she said quietly. “The truth is, I was planning to. If he’d lived just another week, I would have. I wish I had. I wish he’d been my first and not the monster.” Her voice shook. “That photo—he was all bloody. His chest had caved in.” She turned to Casey. “Sergeant—that last morning—did you really mean all those things you said? You didn’t want to take care of me?”

“I wanted you angry.”

“But—all those times you were good to me—were you lying?”

“Leave it, Jenny.” His voice hardened. “Don’t start messing me about. It’s been a long time since I felt that way.”

Why was he so gruff? She knew he rarely talked about his feelings, but she needed to know. “Is it just a job to you?”

“It’s a job I like. I can’t say any fairer than that.”

Hunt left, returning a few minutes later with hot cocoa for her. “My prescription—administer chocolate. Dosage—one cup.”

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W
hen Sinclair arrived after dinner, Casey told him Jenny was in phase two: feeling again. “Don’t be surprised if she cries, sir.”

“I’d prefer that actually,” Sinclair said, “to stupor.”

And cry she did: “Did I let you down, with my testimony? Was it good enough? Colin, will he get off?”

“Benjamin is confident he’ll go down.”

“But the monster is famous—and nobody’s ever heard of me! Why should they believe me?”

“Because you were a wonderful witness, Jen. You kept fighting back, no matter what the defence threw at you. Your character was evident, and a number of persons testified as to the good characters of the women who were killed. You know their stories—none of them were promiscuous, but all had had intercourse shortly before they died. Your testimony established the link—not just Scott’s DNA but his treatment of them. I don’t think there’s a member of that jury who won’t consider the injuries that led to their deaths and not hold Scott responsible. And Benjamin doesn’t think that Alford will dare to put Scott in the witness-box. His arrogance alone could put him away.”

“Colin, he threatened to charge me with all sorts of crimes! Can he do that? Will I go through all this and then have to go on trial, too?”

“Jenny, when Scott is convicted, none of that will be an issue.”

“Did you see Rob’s photo? Have you seen others like that?”

Yes, and more—bodies on the scene, bodies at the mortuary, photographs in the files. And the faces of persons who loved the deceased. “Jenny, I’d like to tell you that over time that image will fade, but I can’t. Some do, and some don’t.” He remembered his first. He remembered the worst. And over the years his mind had been imprinted by others whose circumstances had been particularly tragic. After his father’s death, seeing any body without the spirit of life had been difficult. “Bodies die, Jen, but spirits don’t. Scott might have been able to kill your body, but he could never eradicate that indefinable thing that makes you, you.”

The photos the police had taken of her at the hospital probably hadn’t looked much better than Rob’s, but somehow she had survived. Her body had recovered. “I think he did, Colin. There’s nothing left inside. I can’t seem to find—me.”

“You’re like an athlete after a particularly grueling race, Jen. You need time to recharge.”

“I feel more like a politician after the polls have closed: helpless. I’m waiting for the vote to come in to tell me whether my words were believed.”

S
cott’s trial continued, and Jenny’s internal battles did also. Her skin had knit itself back together since his attack, but there were tears inside that her court experience had reopened. They had talked about her vagina in open court! It had been humiliating. And she had endured four days with the monster who had seen and abused her naked body. Four days with strangers watching her. Four days of endless questions. Four days with all her weaknesses exposed. Her testimony had been so
public
—all who were present had heard her delineate—describe—defend. How many had viewed her nakedness? Counsel on both sides—the judge—the jury—who else? Had the men in the flat been shown photographs of her shame? She knew the water couldn’t wash it away, of course, but at least in the shower the men couldn’t hear her crying.