Tim Vicary - A Game of Proof

‘The other view is that Simon Newby stands before you falsely accused of this horrendous crime. That despite being bullied and harassed he told the truth to the police from the moment he arrived in the police station, and yet has suffered the horror of being shut up in a remand prison for months, while he is grieving for the girl he loved. And now he has come to this court and seen the prosecution build a mountain of evidence out of bricks without mortar, a mountain that will collapse at the slightest push with a finger.’

At least they were all watching her now, she noted. The wasps were stiller now, the strength flowing back into her legs. Her voice had not cracked again.

‘Let’s look at the evidence again, shall we? And this time, perhaps we can do it without the bullying, the contempt and the cutting of corners which has been the hallmark of the police and prosecution throughout this case.’ She turned deliberately to face Phil Turner, her face cold as winter. He ignored her, tieing up his notes in red tape.

‘First, let’s look at the forensic evidence, on which the prosecution lay so much store. Look at it dispassionately, as it really is. The blood first, then. There was Jasmine’s blood on Simon’s shoe, and Simon’s knife. The defence don’t dispute that. Yes, it is Jasmine’s blood, found in Simon’s house. But then Jasmine had been in Simon’s house many times; she even lived there for some months. And how much blood was it? You’ve seen the photographs of the body, and the crime scene. Horrific, weren’t they? Blood, vast amounts of it, everywhere. It’s a nightmare to think of the way she must have died. Whoever killed her, you would expect, would be covered in her blood.’

It was all right now. She paused, looking at each member of the jury in turn, and realized her nerves had gone. She was at the still centre of the court, in control of her voice and her thoughts, in control of what they would hear.

‘So how much blood did the police find on Simon’s trainer? Two tiny smears on the sole, and five small drops on the upper surface. Nothing at all on the other trainer. And a minuscule amount under the handle of the knife. It hardly fits with the photos of the crime scene, does it? Even the forensic scientist admitted as much.

‘Nonetheless, it was Jasmine’s blood. The defence admit that. So how did it get there? Well, there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation. Jasmine cut her thumb earlier in the week, when she was in the kitchen wearing Simon’s trainers. It was a tiny cut, so small that the pathologist, you remember, didn’t examine it as thoroughly as he should. In fact he missed an important piece of evidence. But since a highly respected forensic pathologist missed this cut, it’s hardly surprising that my son failed to mention it too, when he was first interviewed by the police. It was a tiny cut, the sort of thing that happens every day. He washed her thumb under the tap, gave her a plaster, and forgot all about it.

‘And that’s why such tiny, almost invisible amounts of blood were found on the shoe and the knife. Because the cut itself was tiny, insignificant, and nothing to do with a murder.’

She had their attention now, she noted, or the attention of most of them. The elderly woman at the back was fumbling in her handbag, looking for what? A tissue? A lipstick? This is my son’s life we’re talking about here!

‘And yet this perfectly reasonable explanation was dismissed by the prosecution with contempt.’ She glared at Phil Turner once again. ‘That’s what I mean by cutting corners. Bullying. Saying it’s a lie rather than examining the evidence in detail.’ She hoped he would stand up and object. But he simply sat there, his face composed, unimpressed.

‘So at the very least there is reasonable doubt about the blood. I would go further. Based on those photos and the evidence of the forensic scientist, I would say it is almost certain that those trainers were not the ones worn by Jasmine’s murderer.’

Now she’d said something. A murmur moved through the court, music in her ears.

‘So what about the semen? The only other piece of forensic evidence that connects Simon with this crime. Well, there’s a very simple explanation for that too, isn’t there, ladies and gentlemen? The simplest possible. Simon admits that he made love to Jasmine that afternoon. It happened regularly, he says. That’s why she came there. And we know she was in his house that afternoon, don’t we, because a witness saw her leave. There is no reason at all to suppose that this part of Simon’s story isn’t true. They made love, and they quarrelled. It happens all the time. And then she left his house.’

She drew another deep breath, aware that she herself was skimming over crucial details now. The old woman had found her tissue and was listening, a disdainful expression on her face.

‘The prosecution have no reason whatsoever to dispute this part of Simon’s story. The love-making — even if it was rough, even if it caused bruising — almost certainly took place inside his house that afternoon. Several hours before Jasmine was murdered, ladies and gentlemen. The sexual intercourse has no necessary connection with Jasmine’s murder.’

She had their attention all right now. They were thinking.

And that was the first step towards creating reasonable doubt.

When Terry ran, not many detectives could keep up. By the time Harry reached the car, Terry had already started it. As Harry clambered in beside him, panting, the tyres squealed and the acceleration slammed him back into his seat.

‘So what is this, boss? Who was on the phone?’

‘Tracy, that’s who.’ Briefly, Terry explained. ‘She followed Gary and guess what? He’s driven our lad Sean to Sharon’s! Sean’s gone inside and Tracy’s watching the door.’

‘My God! What’s the bugger gone there for?’

‘Search me, but it doesn’t feel good, does it? Not with Gary waiting outside. He’s already raped her once, for Christ’s sake!’

‘But it’s not Gary that’s gone in, you say?’

‘No. Not yet anyway. But you say Sean’s visited her before, so maybe he’s gone back for another try, to solve this sex problem of his. How’s Sharon likely to respond to that, Harry?’

‘Not well, sir.’ Harry’s face paled as he thought about it. ‘She said he scared her shitless last time. She never wanted to see him again.’

‘Exactly. And this is a possible murder suspect. Come on, come on! This is the time we need a blue light, for God’s sake!’ He swore at the traffic and pulled out to pass a delivery van, only to be stuck in a queue of vehicles waiting patiently for an old lady on a pedestrian crossing. ‘I just hope they haven’t spotted Trace. If they have, or if Sharon tells him about those photos you showed her, then …’ He drew his hand across his throat, then slammed the car into gear.

‘So from the forensic evidence,’ Sarah said, ‘in my view, you cannot convict. It simply doesn’t prove what the prosecution want it to. There are too many doubts, and other perfectly reasonable explanations which you must consider.

‘What about the rest of the evidence, then? The witness evidence that puts Simon on the riverside path that night when Jasmine was killed? Well, that’s easily dealt with, isn’t it? There isn’t any. None at all. Nobody saw Simon on that footpath that night, nobody saw him within a mile of where Jasmine was murdered.’

This wasn’t going down so well, she could see. Two men were frowning and a young woman whispered something to her neighbour. Yet it ought to be such an obvious, easy point to get across. Grimly, she persevered.

‘Simon tells us he drove away to Scarborough that night and the prosecution have no evidence, no evidence at all, to show that’s not true. So I suggest that in fairness to him, we must assume that it is true.’