Tim Vicary - A Game of Proof

‘Of course I was terrified. Wouldn’t you be?’

‘I’m sure I would be, Ms Gilbert. So would any woman. If a masked man with a knife broke into my house, I’d be in a complete panic. Is that how you were?’

‘Yes, right. You got it at last.’ Sharon looked at Sarah pityingly.

‘So if you were in a complete panic, with your mind full of all these natural terrors for yourself and your children, you weren’t in a very good condition to identify a man whose face was covered by a mask, were you?’

Sharon hesitated. Sarah hoped the jury had understood the question quicker than Sharon had, and were wondering why she didn’t answer.

‘Ms Gilbert?’

‘I know it were him,’ she insisted finally. ‘I told you — I recognised his laugh, and …’

‘And his penis, I believe you said, Ms Gilbert,’ Sarah broke in smoothly. ‘We’ll come to that in a minute.’ She was tempted to say that’s all you saw in Gary anyway, wasn’t it — a laugh and a good lay ; but censored the idea instantly.

‘He said ‘Wayne’ too!’ Sharon almost shouted. ‘He said ‘Get off me, Wayne ’!’

‘So you say, Ms Gilbert. But before that …’ Sarah pretended to consult her notes, though she knew the phrase by heart. ‘… you said yesterday I told him to get out and run but he’s a little hero, that son of mine. Do you remember saying that?’

‘Yes, ’course I do! He is a hero, too, my Wayne is!’

Sarah smiled. ‘I agree with you, Ms Gilbert. You must be proud to have a son like that. But what were your exact words to him? Do you remember? Something like ‘Get out, Wayne, call the police!’, perhaps? ‘Keep away, Wayne — you’ll get hurt!’ Something like that?

‘Something like that, yes.’

‘So you did say ‘Wayne ’?’

‘Maybe. I can’t remember.’

‘Well, it would be natural to use the child’s name, wouldn’t it? And if you did, it’s likely the man heard you use it, isn’t it?’

‘I dunno. He might have. So what?’

‘Well, if he did hear you use Wayne’s name, that may be why he used it himself, you see, Ms Gilbert.’ Sarah smiled sweetly. ‘That’s common sense. It hardly proves that the man was Gary, does it?’

‘Well I think it does!’ Sharon glared angrily. ‘Anyhow, Wayne recognised him too!’

‘After you had talked to him, Ms Gilbert, yes.’

‘What?’

‘You did talk to Wayne afterwards, didn’t you? Before the police came?’

‘’Course I did. Poor little sod, he was shitting himself.’

‘Yes, I understand. He’s a very brave little boy. How old is he — seven? He saw his mother attacked and tried to defend her. He’s a little hero; any mother would be proud of him. So naturally you picked him up to comfort him, and told him it was Gary, and the police were going to arrest him, didn’t you?’

‘Yeah, well — what of it?’

Sarah heard the slight sigh from Julian Lloyd-Davies beside her, and stifled the urge to grin. She was beginning to make progress. The key thing now was to make her point crystal clear to the jury, without looking too triumphant about it. ‘It’s a perfectly natural way for a mother to behave, Ms Gilbert. I’m sure everybody understands that and sympathises. But it does mean, you see, that Wayne almost certainly got his idea about the man being Gary from you. He didn’t think of it for himself. He’s only a child — he thought it was Gary because you told him it was.’

‘That’s not true. He recognised him!’

Sarah shook her head. The jury had got the point; she didn’t need to labour it.

‘So we are left with Gary’s voice, aren’t we? Tell me, Ms Gilbert, this hood the man was wearing — did it cover all of his face?’

‘Yes. All but his eyes.’

‘It covered his nose and mouth too, did it?’

‘Yeah. I think it did.’

A little imp in Sarah’s mind began to laugh. That was more than she had hoped for. ‘So his voice must have sounded rather muffled, mustn’t it? If he spoke through a woollen mask?’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’

‘Tell me, Ms Gilbert, how often have you heard Gary talk through a thick layer of wool?’

‘What? That’s not the point. I knew it was him, I tell you!’

‘You knew it was him because you think you recognised his voice through a thick woollen hood, when you’ve already admitted you were in a complete panic which made you so terrified you hardly knew what was happening? That’s not possible, Ms Gilbert. I don’t think anyone could make a proper identification in a situation like that.’

‘It was him, I tell you. I recognised his voice!’

‘That’s for the jury to decide.’ A vital skill, Sarah had learned from a QC in her first year, was how to wrong-foot a witness by stepping out of an argument just at the right moment. Never be drawn into a slanging match, he said. Always keep the initiative, and remember the impression you’re making on the jury. She glanced at the clock, and saw there were about ten minutes to go before lunch. But Sharon hadn’t finished.

‘Look, I recognised the bastard, and that’s it! Why would I say it was him if it wasn’t, eh? You tell me that!’

Sarah nodded calmly: ‘Well, in fact that is exactly the point I intend to come on to next, Ms Gilbert. But …’ She glanced at the clock, and then at the judge. ‘ … I anticipate it may take some time, and as it is now twelve thirty, I wonder if your Lordship might think …’

Judge Gray nodded, and pushed back his heavy chair. ‘Yes, very well, Mrs Newby. We will adjourn until half past one.’

As the usher called out ‘all stand’ and the judge withdrew through the panelled door behind his throne, Sarah studied the jury, wondering how her morning’s performance had gone down with them. They certainly looked lively, and several eager discussions had already begun. So far so good, then — the more they began to question the evidence, the better. Then her gaze travelled up to the public gallery, where students, relatives, and idlers were beginning to climb back over the wooden benches to the door at the top.

But to her surprise, one young man was not moving. He leant over the rail at the front of the gallery, watching the unravelling scene below. His eyes fixed on hers as soon as she saw him, and she recognised her son, Simon.

She met him in the entrance hall, amid the throng of witnesses, security men and the general public. Sarah ran up to Simon quickly, her papers still under her arm.

‘Simon! Whatever brings you here?’

Simon shrugged. ‘Day off. Thought I’d see what you actually do.’

‘Well! What a wonderful surprise!’

Sarah looked up at her son in delight. He was six inches taller than her, with a handsome, broad-nosed face and a shadow of stubble on his chin. His reddish-gold hair was cut brutally short and he had the ring in his left ear that she hated. But he looked fit and relaxed, in jeans and a sleeveless shirt that showed off the muscles of his upper arms. He had always been a natural athlete, much fitter than Bob had ever been.

Simon touched her wig. ‘You look daft in that.’

‘I’ll take it off then. Wait there — have you got time for lunch?’

‘Maybe.’ He looked around apprehensively. ‘Don’t you eat here?’

‘No. We’ll buy a sandwich — sit by the river.’

‘OK then.’

She ran up the wide staircase to leave her gown, wig and papers in the robing room. She glanced hurriedly at the questions she planned to ask later, but there was nothing she needed to change. Anyway Simon was here, that was what mattered — her son whom she hadn’t seen for weeks!

As she came down she was surprised to see Simon talking to a witness, Graham Dewar. As she approached they moved apart. She took Simon’s arm and went out into the sunshine.