Tim Vicary - A Game of Proof

He threw open his hands, as though the conclusion was obvious. ‘… I could plead manslaughter, which carries a much lesser sentence than murder. In fact, the trial could be over in a day, with no jury at all. But that’s not possible with this story you’re telling at the moment, you see.’

‘What?’ Simon shook his head, bemused.

‘With the story you are telling now, I must warn you that our chances are not particularly good. And if you are convicted of murder you will go to prison for life. Whereas if, on reflection, you were to tell a different story, that you suffered a sudden loss of control and killed Jasmine in a moment of jealous passion, without meaning to, then everything changes. We can plead diminished responsibility. Do you see?’

‘But I didn’t kill her.’

‘I know you say that, Simon, I understand that fully, I assure you. But let me put this to you — I want you to think about this very carefully before we meet again, because it’s very important. There is such a thing as suppressed memory. There have been several cases recently where a psychological examination has established that a person who committed a terrible crime — a murder like, for example, this murder of Jasmine — remembered nothing about it at all. It was like a car accident, the shock erased the memory. Do you follow what I’m saying?’

Simon nodded slowly, his face sullen, hostile, confused.

‘So they could quite truthfully tell a story — as you have done — saying that they didn’t do it, when in fact they had done it but couldn’t remember. Often these people went wandering off after the crime just like you disappeared to Scarborough. But later when it was proved they had suffered such mental trauma it was easy to claim diminished responsibility. Their barrister explained that their earlier stories were not lies at all, but simply the truth as they saw it because part of their memory was missing. Now I know a number of eminent psychiatrists and what I would like …’

‘Fuck off.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Fuck off, you slimy cunt.’ Simon leaned forward over the table, his face a few inches from Sir Richard’s. ‘Get the fuck out of here now, before I push your nose down your throat. Do you hear me? Go! ’

‘Wait, just a minute, let’s calm things down …’ Sir Richard sat back, waving his pen in Simon’s face. ‘OK, I see you don’t agree …’

Simon knocked the pen, spinning, out of his hand. Then he pulled Sir Richard’s nose, so that the barrister fell sideways, onto the floor. Simon spat and the phlegm landed in his ear.

Then Lucy caught hold of Simon, wrapping both her arms around his so he couldn’t attack further, enfolding his slim hard trembling body in a massive soft motherly embrace. The junior barrister hit the alarm button and two warders came in. Simon was led away in handcuffs.

On the way to the car park Sir Richard, dusting down his expensive mohair suit, said little. He touched his keys and the lights of his Jaguar lit up like a faithful dog. He favoured Lucy with what he hoped was a wry smile.

‘I seem to have hit the wrong note, rather. But put it to him again, Mrs Parsons, will you? When he’s in a calmer mood. It was a serious point and may prove to be his only real defence. If he chooses to adopt it, that is.’

He opened his car door, then another thought struck him.

‘Oh, and don’t worry. I’ve never yet stooped to suing one of my own clients for assault. Wouldn’t be very good PR now, would it?’

‘He did what?’

‘Pulled the man’s nose, dragged him to the floor, and spat in his ear. Then…’

Lucy struggled to keep her voice neutral, but her emotions bubbled beneath the words. Officially she was, of course, appalled; but underneath she could not disguise her guilty delight. Lucy had always loathed being patronized by plummy QCs like Sir Richard; never before had she seen one so swiftly, comprehensively humiliated.

‘Sweet mother of God, Simon, what have you done now?’ Sarah hid her face in her hands, and peered at Lucy between her fingers. ‘He really did that? Pulled his nose and spat in his ear?’

Lucy nodded. ‘Smack in the middle. He used his monogrammed hankie to clean it out.’

‘ Oh . Oh dear me.’ Sarah began to shake. At first Lucy couldn’t identify the reaction, then she realized it was laughter. A wild, hysterical kind of laughter, but laughter all the same. And once Sarah had begun to laugh Lucy started too, as she’d been longing to do all morning. The two of them rocked back and forwards in their chairs, hooting helplessly. Lucy wiped her streaming eyes, and passed the tissues to Sarah.

‘So what now?’ Sarah asked, sobering suddenly. ‘Will he still take the case, d’you think?’

‘He was still speaking of Simon as his client, when he got into his Jaguar.’

‘Well, that’s something, I suppose. But it’s hardly likely to increase his level of commitment, Lucy, is it?’

Lucy frowned. ‘His feelings ought not to come into it. Sir Richard Haverstock is a professional , Sarah.’

‘Yes, he is, isn’t he?’ Sarah met her friend’s eyes with a deadpan grimace. ‘A Queen’s Counsel, no less. Not a spittoon.’

‘Look, I’ve spoken to him and he doesn’t hold it against you. He understands that you’re under a lot of stress and he’ll forget all about it and give you the best defence he can.’

‘How can he?’ Simon asked angrily. ‘He wants me to plead guilty. He thinks I did it.’

‘He wasn’t saying that exactly, Simon. He was saying the prosecution have a strong case.’

‘So he’s given up already. That’s it, isn’t it?’

Simon, Lucy and Sarah were back in the interview room in Hull. It was less than a week before the trial was due to start. Sir Richard had not been back to see Simon again, but Lucy had had several long phone conversations with him. The man had been smooth, urbane, reassuring.

‘It’s his duty to give you the best advice he can. He said if he could present you in a sympathetic light, you might get eight years and be out in four. Which is a lot less than life.’

‘Eight years? Christ.’ Simon stared out of the window, while a warder watched through the door. Since his assault on Sir Richard, Simon was handcuffed during visiting.

‘Is that what you do, then, mum? Tell people to plead guilty when they didn’t do it?’

‘Sometimes, Simon, yes. If the prosecution case is very strong, I might advise a client to do that in his own best interests. But it’s always the client who decides, not the lawyer.’

‘Yeah, well I’m the client and I’m pleading not guilty, OK?’

‘I think you made that clear to Sir Richard when he was here,’ said Lucy. ‘And I’ve told him that over the phone. Naturally he’ll defend you on that basis if you insist, he said.’

Simon looked down at his manacled hands. He was thinner and more subdued than she remembered, Sarah thought. She wondered if they were giving him some sort of calming drug. Or more likely, the impending urgency of the trial was getting to him.

‘Yeah, but what does he actually know about my case? He’s only met me once.’

‘I’ve sent him the papers,’ Lucy answered. ‘Four box files. He’s had them a week now.’

‘ A week? ’ Simon stared at her, anxiously. ‘Is that long enough?’

Lucy hesitated. The truth, she knew, was that Sir Richard had probably not given the papers more than a cursory glance so far. His massive, complex, and highly lucrative drug smuggling case was due to finish tomorrow, and had certainly occupied all his mental energies for the past month or more. By comparison, Simon’s case was small beer. But if the drug trial did finish on time Sir Richard and his junior would still have a long weekend to familiarise themselves with the evidence.