Tim Vicary - A Game of Proof

‘Yes, mum, but what do you really think? Did he do it, or not?’

‘I don’t know, Simon. It’s not my job to know.’ It was an old argument, but the rest of her family had never really accepted it. Like that detective, Terry Bateson, yesterday.

‘Oh, come on, mum — you must have an opinion! Hasn’t he told you?’

‘Yes. He’s told me he didn’t do it and I have to respect that. Isn’t that what you’d want, if I was defending you?’

‘Yeah, but I mean, Gary Harker! He’s a right hard case. And all that stuff with the knife and the mask and the little kid — if he did all that he should have his balls cut off!’

‘If he did it, Simon, yes,’ said Sarah sarcastically. ‘And if he didn’t? What then?’

‘He’s still a pillock. I’ve met him — remember?’

‘So have I. I’ll remember your views when I have to defend you. In the meantime …’ She stood up, looking for a litter bin for the sandwich wrappers. ‘… even pillocks need defending, so I’d better get back. Coming?’

‘Maybe, for a bit. Nowt else to do.’

Once again his answer irritated and pleased her at the same time. As they walked back, two young female backpackers, sunbathing in bra and shorts and heavy boots, glanced at Simon appreciatively, and for a moment Sarah saw him through their eyes and thought how attractive he was, this tall muscular young man who was her son. If only she could be more proud of him; but there was always this awkwardness between them. Impulsively, as they approached the court, they turned to each other and both began to speak at once.

‘Simon, would you like me to come round to your house after …’

‘How’s Emily?’

Recovering, Sarah spoke first. ‘Emily’s fine. Worried about her GCSEs though. I went to a concert of hers last night.’ She paused. ‘Would you like …?’

‘My place is a bit of a tip at the moment …’

‘I don’t mind. I could help you to clear it up.’

‘Not your scene really is it, mum? You’ve got books to read, pillocks to defend. I’ll see you around.’

She sighed. ‘All right then. Any time, Simon, really. Just drop round.’

‘Yes.’ Living near each other in the same city, separated by emotion rather than distance, they had never really solved the issue of whether to kiss or embrace at parting. Other people seemed to manage it well but they were not a family who touched much. So now she just gave him her hand. ‘See you then.’

‘I’m coming to watch, remember?’ Trying to make amends, he drew her to him briefly and kissed the top of her head as though she were a child. Then, going up the steps past Julian Lloyd-Davies who stood watching with his junior, Simon said loudly: ‘I’ll be in’t gallery then, mum. Ready to gob on’t pillock’s head if he interrupts again!’

When Sarah entered court everyone else apart from the judge was already in their places. Hurriedly, she poured herself a glass of water, and scanned the questions on her pad.

‘All stand!’ the clerk called, and everyone rose. Judge Gray entered, bowed, and sat down. Everyone except Sarah resumed their seats. Despite her hurried entry she felt quite calm, clear in her mind about what she had to do.

‘Now, Ms Gilbert, you say you met Mr Harker at a party at the Royal Station Hotel on Saturday 14th October. What time did you arrive?’

‘About eight, eight thirty, I suppose.’

‘And you left just before midnight, you said?’

‘Yes. I had to get home because of the kids.’

‘Yes. Your little girl was ill, I think you said. So you stayed at this party for what? Three hours? Four?’ Sarah glanced at the jury, hoping they would take the point about Sharon’s standard of child care.

‘About that, yeah.’

‘I see. And while you were there, what did you drink?’

‘Vodka and lime. That’s what I usually have.’

‘That’s the only thing you drink, is it?’

‘Usually, yes. Sometimes a glass of wine or a gin.’

‘All right. So you went to this party to enjoy yourself, and you were there for three or four hours. Think back, Ms Gilbert. So how many vodka and limes did you have in the course of the evening? One? Three? Five? Ten?’

Up to this point Sarah had met Sharon’s eyes as she questioned her, but now she looked away, at a point on the wall about a yard to Sharon’s right and above her head. It was a technique she had learned from other barristers — at crucial points look away, break eye contact. It keeps your mind clear to focus on the most precise, awkward questions while at the same time leaving the witness floundering, unable to enlist your sympathy with body language. It’s a sort of calculated insult, too — it shows the jury you’re in charge, that you’re listening to the answers but don’t necessarily trust the person who is giving them.

‘About … four, five perhaps.’

‘All right. Four or five vodkas with lime. What about gin? You drink that sometimes.’

‘Yeah, Gary bought me one. Trying to make up to me, I guess.’

‘All right. So you had four or five vodkas, and a gin. A double gin, was it?’

‘Yes.’

‘All right. So it was a good party and you had quite a lot to drink.’ Sarah looked pointedly at the jury. ‘Nothing wrong with that, but it all adds up to … what? Maybe eight units of alcohol altogether. And for the sake of comparison, an average woman exceeds the drink drive limit after three or four units, so you were well over that. Were you drunk, Ms Gilbert?’

‘Drunk? No. A bit merry, perhaps.’ Sharon was looking flushed now, annoyed. ‘I’m never drunk. I can’t be, can I, with the kids?’

‘Never drunk. So you feel you were in a perfectly fit state to look after your children, one of whom was ill. Is that right?’

‘Yes, of course I was! All I had to do was give them a bit of a cuddle and put ‘em to bed! Anyway, so what? I’m not here because of my kids, I’m here because that man raped me!’

‘Well, that’s exactly the point I’m coming to, Ms Gilbert. You see, we’ve already established that it would be very difficult for you to positively identify a man who broke into your house with a hood over his face, when you were naturally very frightened — terrified — and the man only spoke a few words through his hood. Now when I asked you about that this morning, I imagine the jury assumed you were sober; but you weren’t, were you? You were not only terrified out of your wits — as you had every right to be — you were drunk!’

‘No I bloody well wasn’t! I just had a few drinks at a party. What’s wrong with that?’

Sarah faced the jury, hoping to appeal to their common sense. She studied them carefully — a frowning middle-class woman in her fifties, a young man in a suit, a vacant young woman in a fluffy pink cardigan, a heavy-set man in a leather jacket, resting his chin in his hand.

‘You had consumed eight units of alcohol, Ms Gilbert. Do you know why people are prohibited from driving with that amount in their blood? It’s because their ability to react correctly, and perceive accurately what is going on around them, is seriously impaired. But you had drunk twice the permitted driving level, Ms Gilbert! Twice as much! It’s a simple medical fact — everything was a blur to you that night, wasn’t it?’

‘No!’

‘Yes, Ms Gilbert.’ To her delight Sarah saw the man in the leather jacket and the middle-aged woman nod in agreement. ‘Let me put it simply. It’s hard enough for anyone to identify a man with a hood over his face when they’re sober, but you weren’t sober, you were drunk. So you were in no state whatsoever to identify a man whose face you never even saw!’