Tim Vicary - A Game of Proof

‘I know, My Lord. But I now wish … I mean, I am happy to accept the brief.’

She remembered Simon’s earnest, desperate face in the prison room in Hull, and her own rush of strong, protective emotion when she had agreed.

The judge nodded. ‘Very well. But I have two conflicting responsibilities here, it seems to me. On the one hand, I will of course uphold your son’s rights in law. On the other hand, I must put it to you — I will say it no stronger than that — that your own emotional involvement in this case may — and I only say may , I have no experience of this — may mean that you quite inadvertently give a less good service to your client than would be given by a disinterested advocate. And therefore that your son would not receive as fair a trial, as in the interests of justice he is entitled to receive. Have you considered that too?’

‘I have, My Lord,’ said Sarah solemnly, ignoring the implied insult that she, as a mother, was not up to the job. ‘I put this point to my client and he strongly felt — he believes - that it will work the other way. Because I care so much about the case, he thinks I will do a better job.’

‘I see.’ Judge Mookerjee gazed at her silently for a moment. Sarah wondered about the expression on his face. Was it sympathy, or mere curiosity — the sort of detached curiosity that all lawyers feel from time to time at the parade of human oddities which pass before them? Was this how everyone would look at her, when the trial finally began? She felt an unwanted prickling of tears at the corner of her eyes.

‘Let us hope your son is right in his judgement,’ the judge said eventually. ‘I wish my children may trust me as much. But there is one other point; the reaction of the jury. On the one hand, they may feel sympathy for you, and therefore for your son. It’s a natural enough human reaction. On the other hand, and I feel bound to point this out, things might go the other way.’

‘How do you mean, exactly?’

‘Well, look at it this way. Were you merely a paid advocate, as you would be in any other case, then the jury may think that you retain, paradoxically, a certain independent reputation. In other words, if a defence barrister says something, we expect the jury to consider it seriously. But if you, as the accused’s mother , say something, the jury may not give it the same weight. Do you see my point? They may think, well, she’s the boy’s mother, she would say that, wouldn’t she? It’s not an independent barrister who’s saying that, it’s only the boy’s mother.’

Sarah hesitated, uncertain how to respond. This idea had not occurred to her. Then Phil Turner laughed.

‘I think, My Lord, that you attribute too sophisticated an understanding to the ordinary juror. They don’t have a very high opinion of us, you know. Specially not of defence lawyers. The public just see us as whores, paid to tell lies for a fee. So the fact that in this case someone may think Mrs Newby’s telling lies because she’s the lad’s mum …’ He shook his head slowly. ‘It makes no difference, in my view.’

He smiled at Sarah apologetically. ‘That’s how folk see me, anyhow.’

‘So I’m a liar whether I’m his mother or not?’ Sarah snapped. ‘Thanks for nothing, Phil.’

Turner looked hurt, but Sarah didn’t care. It was not his words that had irritated her. It was his bluff male self-confidence, the way he’d made his point appear such straightforward common sense. It terrified her. This man’s job was to send her son to prison for life. And if he spoke that way in court, everyone would be bound to trust him. They would know he had no reason to lie.

And then they would look at her.

Sarah shuddered. The judge was right. The jury would despise her because she was Simon’s mother. They’d wonder how any woman could bring such a monster into the world. They would feel pity, and scorn, and not listen to a single word she said.

Judge Mookerjee watched her. ‘Have you considered this, Mrs Newby?’

‘I have, My Lord, yes,’ she lied. I can’t back out now. I won’t.

‘Very well. Then this court has no objection to your representing your son, Mrs Newby. It is a matter entirely between you and him.’

Too right it is, Sarah thought grimly. ‘Thank you, My Lord.’

Phil Turner smiled politely. ‘I hope we can maintain a professional relationship, Sarah. Whatever I say in court, there’ll be nothing personal in it, believe me.’

Sarah glared at him. His bluff, honest looks must have been given him by the devil, she decided. She was going to have to learn to hate this man.

‘Oh yes, there is, Phil,’ she said firmly. ‘Every last bit of it’s personal, for me. Whatever you say in there, hurts my son. So don’t you ever forget that.’

She walked smartly out of the room, alone.

Lucy had warned Sarah about the Press, but the message had not really sunk in. She had been too busy preparing her case. It was not until she left her chambers, and walked the short distance across Castle Street to the court, that she saw what Lucy had meant.

Outside the Crown Court was a wide circle of grass, the Eye of York, with a circular road running round it. The eighteenth century court building, with its stone pillars and the blind statue of justice with her spear and scales, faced in towards this grassy circle. On two mores sides was the old prison, now the Castle Museum. On the northern side, on a high mound, was the keep of the Norman castle, Clifford’s Tower.

On a normal morning this area was largely empty. Schoolchildren might queue for the museum; the black windowed prison bus would park outside the court; the judges’ limousine would pull up smoothly at the court steps. Witnesses and jurors would mill uncertainly in the entrance. And that was all.

But today, Sarah saw in horror, the Eye of York was packed. There were four TV vans, each with camera crew, news reporters and fluffy microphones on sticks. The court steps and terrace swarmed with reporters, with microphone or cameras in their hands. Cars were parked indiscriminately all around the grass; the outnumbered security men had retreated, trying only to control entrance to the court itself. Sarah paused, stunned at the sight.

‘Mother of God, Luce, why didn’t you warn me about this?’

‘I did, lovey, I did,’ Lucy muttered, awestruck. ‘But I never thought it would be this bad. Come on, heads down, let’s get through it quick.’

‘But why are they here?’

Sarah found out soon enough. They were twenty yards from the entrance when the first reporters rushed towards them. Cameras flashed and questions battered their ears.

‘Mrs Newby, what’s it like to defend your son?’

‘How do you feel about this murder? Did you know the victim?’

‘Had she ever visited your house?’

‘Do you feel guilty, Mrs Newby? Isn’t it a bit like defending yourself?’

Lucy gripped her friend’s arm firmly, dragging her forwards through the scrum.

‘Don’t say a word, just keep walking. Come on, we’re nearly there.’

As they reached the foot of the steps two security men reached them, elbowing media people out of the way. But to Sarah it seemed an age before the assault from cameras and questions ceased, and they were safe inside.

‘My God! I never expected that. Those questions were so personal. ’

‘Yes, they were, weren’t they?’ Lucy looked at her anxiously. ‘But it doesn’t matter, Sarah, you don’t have to answer them.’

‘No.’ Sarah breathed deeply, then smiled. A shaky, nervous smile, but a smile for all that. ‘Anyway, this trial isn’t about me, it’s about Simon. Come on, we’ve got work to do.’