Tim Vicary - A Game of Proof

‘Love, my arse!’ He snatched his hands away. ‘If you loved me you’d defend me, that’s the truth of it. Not this …’

‘You need a top criminal QC — someone detached and brilliant who …’

‘Who doesn’t give a shit about me. No, I don’t, thank you.’

‘You’re just trying to make me feel guilty, Simon. What you really need is someone much, much better than me.’

‘What I want is someone who cares, Mum. Don’t you care about me?’

‘Of course I care, Simon. That’s the whole point. That’s why I shouldn’t do this. If I messed it up I’d never forgive myself.’

‘That’s exactly the point, Mum — don’t you see? No other lawyer in the world — not even Lucy — cares about this case much as you. That’s exactly why I want you to defend me.’

Their eyes locked, each desperate to convince the other. For once in her life, Sarah felt herself losing the argument. Losing, and despite herself, wanting to lose. She drew a deep breath. ‘You really want this, Simon? Even though I tell you it’s unwise?’

‘If I say I want it I do, Mum. Trust me.’

‘It’s you who’ll be trusting me, more like.’

‘Yeah, OK.’ A nervous smile flickered on his lips. ‘You mean you’ll do it then?’

She hesitated, struggling to maintain some detachment. ‘If you really want me to.’

‘Mum!’ He laughed aloud with relief. ‘ I want you to. OK?’

‘All right, Simon.’ She felt like a priest giving a blessing. ‘I will.’

Only she wasn’t a priest, she didn’t believe in miracles. Especially not miracles performed by her.

‘Sarah …’ Lucy’s voice warned. ‘I’m not sure you can …’

‘I will if I can , Lucy, that’s what I’m saying. Simon, look, there are laws and precedents and the judge will have to decide about those. If he won’t let me I can’t do it. But if you really want me to defend you and the judge allows it then I will. That’s what I’m saying. I still don’t think it’s wise, it’s probably not wise at all.’

‘Yes it is,’ Simon insisted desperately. ‘It has to be. It’s the only thing that will work.’

The judge, His Lordship P. J. Mookerjee, frowned at the two barristers in front of him. On his desk was a letter from Sarah, briefly outlining her position. She was the mother of the defendant, who wished her to represent him in court. She was aware of no statute or regulation which specifically prohibited such a choice. Nonetheless, it was an unusual situation, which she would like to discuss in chambers before the trial began.

Judge Mookerjee was young for a judge. Sarah guessed he was in his late forties, ten years older than herself. He was a short, chubby man of Indian descent, with a luxuriant black moustache, and gold-rimmed glasses through which he peered at Sarah keenly.

‘Well, Mrs Newby.’ He smiled briefly, a gleam of perfect white teeth in his dark face, an attempt perhaps to put her at ease. ‘Do you mind if I ask whose idea this was in the first place? Yours, or your son’s?’

‘My son’s. I advised against it, but … he was very insistent.’

The judge nodded. ‘As children sometimes are. Don’t you find, Mr Turner?’

‘Indeed,’ Phil Turner answered non-committally. ‘Though mine are still too young to face me with dilemmas like this, thank God.’

‘Let’s hope they never do,’ the judge replied smoothly.

Sarah had a sense, not unfamiliar to her from judge’s conferences, that the agenda was already slipping away from her and being redefined according to some male world-view from which she was forever excluded. Or was she too sensitive, over-reacting to what was simply good manners, the public school veneer never acquired in Seacroft?

She studied the men keenly. The more she could learn about their ideas and prejudices now, the better. Whatever happened, these men would affect the future of her son. If her request was granted, she would face them in court. If not, she would watch from the public gallery, able to see everything but influence nothing. I would hate that, she thought. She hadn’t wanted to represent Simon at first, but the idea had grown until now she wanted it passionately. She wanted to be in there, fighting in every way she could. Even if she failed, at least she would have tried.

The prosecuting barrister, Philip Turner, was a big, bluff Yorkshireman, well known and respected around the northern circuit. Still a junior like herself, he had years of experience and a success rate second to none. Part of this, Sarah believed, was due to his straightforward, honest manner. There were no airs and graces about him, despite his education at St Peter’s School and Merton College, Oxford. He was a farmer’s son who had retained a Yorkshire accent, and it was easy to imagine him, with his powerful build, battered nose and cheerful grin, at the wheel of a tractor, the bottom of a rugby scrum, or supping a foaming jar of Sam Smith’s ale.

Juries, in short, liked Phil Turner and trusted him. So from Simon’s point of view, he was the most lethal prosecutor possible.

Judge Mookerjee, on the other hand, was an unknown quantity. Sarah had never appeared before him. She had consulted Savendra, who’d said only ‘Decent enough chap, very sharp, Cambridge cricket blue, I believe. Rumoured to be a bit challenged in the sense of humour department, though.’

Sarah had grinned ruefully. ‘You think I’ll be cracking jokes, Savvy? With my son on trial for rape and murder?’

Thoughtfully, in his self-appointed role as Sarah’s therapist, Savendra had considered this. ‘Possibly not, no. But if a wisecracking routine suggests itself, remember — for punch lines, this Mookerjee fellow needs a fortnight’s notice.’

‘Well, that’s very useful, Savvy, thanks. Wish me luck?’

‘Oh, I do, Sarah. Most sincerely and without any cynicism whatsoever, I do.’ And for the first time in their cheerful, jokey, combative relationship, he’d enfolded her in a warm, comforting hug.

‘Your Belinda’s a lucky girl, Savvy.’

‘Isn’t she just? I told her that last night and she slapped my face. Now tell me, as a sophisticated woman of the world, is that the English form of caress?’

She smiled inwardly as she observed judge Mookerjee in his chambers. No flip jokes, remember. Not that any sprang to mind. This was far, far too important for that.

‘There are several issues, it seems to me,’ the judge began. ‘Firstly, the straightforward point of law. I, like you, Mrs Newby, have found no statute which prohibits a member of the Bar from representing a member of her own family. The choice of legal representative rests with the accused. Would you concur with that, Mr Turner?’

‘I agree, yes,’ said Phil Turner. ‘There’s nothing against it in law.’

‘Very well, then.’ The judge leaned forward on his desk, lacing his fingers under his chin. ‘First point, and perhaps the vital point, to you, Mrs Newby. However …’

Sarah’s heart sank. He’s thought of something I haven’t, she told herself.

‘ … there are other points to be considered. Most importantly, is this a wise choice, in the interests of justice and your client? It’s not difficult to find reasons why it might be against those interests. Several spring instantly to mind. Lack of objectivity, emotion getting in the way of reason, and so on. Have you considered it in that light, Mrs Newby?’

‘I have, My Lord, yes. As I said, I advised my son — my client — against this in the first instance. But he was insistent — very — about his right to choose.’

‘Which is enshrined in law, I agree. But just because he asks you to represent him does not mean you have to agree. You can decline a case, you know.’