Cath Staincliffe - Letters To My Daughter's Killer

‘So what of the events of that night? The prosecution would have you believe that a loving husband and father killed his wife in a sustained and brutal attack and then set about constructing a complicated false trail to divert suspicion. This implausible scenario is not backed up by significant evidence. Just consider this.’ Her voice is clear and full of serious intent, her back ramrod straight as she addresses the jury. ‘There were no fingerprints on the poker to connect Mr Tennyson with the weapon used. Much has been made of missing clothes, of missing shoes, but the absence of evidence is not evidence. The forensic expert himself admitted that there was no way of proving where the deposits in the ash tray from the stove originated. And proof is crucial.’ She smacks her fist on to her upturned palm.

‘Without proof, there has to be doubt. Reasonable doubt. We, the defence, do not have to account for the gaps in the prosecution case; that is their job. Ours is to assess and test the evidence.

‘What remains? The skin under the deceased’s nails? Jack Tennyson has explained how Mrs Tennyson stumbled earlier in the day, caught at his arm for balance and grazed his skin. A simple and honest explanation. The bloody fingerprints on the wall by the stairs and the bathroom door were made as Mr Tennyson raced upstairs to check the house for intruders and rescue his little girl. The blood in the shower may well have come from Mrs Tennyson herself, or even from her killer, who would have had almost two and a half hours in the house if they arrived shortly after Mr Tennyson left. Again, we the defence have no responsibility to answer those questions, but we can say that there are any number of explanations for finding blood in the shower, and the prosecution have failed resoundingly to prove a link between Mr Tennyson and that evidence. The footprint? Thousands of pairs of those shoes were sold last year in the Manchester area. It was the most popular style of the season. The prosecution have failed to prove beyond all reasonable doubt that the shoe that made that print belonged to or was worn by Mr Tennyson.’

I think of the receipt, how important it seemed. Wouldn’t common sense tell the jury that the footprint was from your trainers, that you’d burnt them?

‘From the moment that Mr Tennyson found his beloved wife, he has co-operated with the police and he has never wavered one iota from the account he gave at the outset. His statements have been consistent, time and again. Because he is telling the truth.’ She presses her lips together, the line of garish orange forming a rueful smile.

‘In the depth of his grief, and following the trauma of his wife’s murder, Mr Tennyson, finding himself under the insidious cloud of suspicion, has conducted himself with unimaginable dignity. He did not murder Lizzie Tennyson. He did not attack Lizzie Tennyson. He loved her, he needs to grieve for her.’ Her voice seems to fill the chamber, clear and precise. ‘If you have the slightest, slenderest doubt about the evidence against him, then you will see him acquitted without stain upon his character, free to provide a loving home for his child. When you are deliberating, ask yourselves this: where is the proof? Hard, incontrovertible proof. Where? Not in the cheap theatrics of Mr Cromer’s exercise with dummies. Not in the absence of blood, or the absence of clothes, or the absence of fingerprints or the absence of a pair of ill-fitting running shoes. Not in the absence of motive. I’d add another absence here -the absence of guilt.

‘Mr Tennyson loved his wife. He went to the gym on that fateful night, bought milk after Mrs Tennyson texted him to ask him to bring some home, and returned to find utter devastation. Those are the hard facts, corroborated facts. Our sympathy goes to the deceased’s parents and her daughter, to her friends and colleagues for this terrible, terrible crime. But it goes to Mr Tennyson too.’ She speaks quietly now, drawing everyone in. ‘He has lost his wife, his life partner, the mother of his child. Mr Tennyson did not commit this crime. Please study the evidence closely and it will tell you that he is an innocent man, wrongly accused, who is at your mercy. Thank you.’

The judge tells the jury that they have heard all the evidence and their task is to decide whether, taking it all into account, they judge you guilty or not guilty. ‘If you conclude that Mr Tennyson was innocent of the offence as charged, you must return a not guilty verdict. If you agree that there is a suspicion of guilt but the evidence leads you to agree that you have a reasonable doubt about the guilt, then you must acquit the defendant; that is, you must find him not guilty. If you come to the conclusion that Mr Tennyson is responsible for the crime as charged, based on the evidence you have heard, then you will return a verdict of guilty. And you must try and reach a unanimous verdict. It is beholden on me to define the law of the offence charged. The defendant is charged with murder; in British law, that is an offence under common law in which one person kills another with intent to unlawfully cause death or serious harm.’

As he summarizes the evidence, I look at the jury, the men and women who hold your fate in their hands. Has your performance won them over? They have never met Lizzie, but every day here they’ve been witness to your quiet and steadfast presence, perhaps swayed by your handsome features. Don’t we all at some base level expect the beautiful to be morally superior to the unattractive or downright ugly? Wouldn’t they all, like I did, welcome you into their family? Bright, charming, talented. Would we be here if your proposal had not been in public? If she’d had more space to consider that proposal? If she’d not been pregnant? If you’d had the lucky break you wanted? A thousand ifs and all their bastard children.

The judge rises and my stomach falls. The jury leave the room.

I am paralysed. Pinned in place until the verdict is through.

And I hope they find you guilty and set me free.

We are called back into the court the following day. The jury has deliberated for seven hours in all, interrupted by an evening break when they were sent to a hotel overnight.

I have not slept.

My stomach is so tense, I fear I will vomit. My mouth waters and I swallow repeatedly. Tony looks as terrified as me. Denise, red-eyed, has been crying.

Bea is holding my hand.

What if they find you not guilty? What then? You’ll walk out of here a free man. Will you want vengeance of your own? Want to hurt me, punish me for my avid desire to see you made culpable? It would be so easy. You could take Florence, forbid me to see her. Move away, start afresh. I could not bear that.

The judge begins to speak, asking the foreman if the jury has reached a verdict.

My heart climbs into my throat.

I stare at the woman who is answering the judge, blood rushing in my ears, and the high-pitched whine that never leaves me is accentuated in the brief pause before she gives the verdict.

I squeeze Bea’s fingers, watch the foreman’s lips. Read the single word.

Guilty.

And it is done.

Ruth

Tuesday 20 July 2010

Except it’s not that simple, is it? I thought that with the resolution of Jack’s guilt, with the sentence – the judge said he’d serve a minimum of seventeen years – would come a sense of relief, if not exactly closure. Or a feeling of release from the strain of going through the trial in the wake of Lizzie’s death. Back then I had regarded his conviction as a goal, a destination on the horizon. Thinking that once I reached that point I would begin to find my feet again. Feel solid ground beneath me: not rock yet, perhaps, but sand or shingle, marsh.