Felix Francis - Guilty Not Guilty

But, I suppose, the jury could wear what they liked. They didn’t have to impress anyone.

The judge might think that he was in charge, and he was in terms of the law, but the jury were the final arbitrators of the facts and it was they who ultimately pronounced on the guilt or otherwise of the man in the dock. They were the kings of the court and everybody knew it, the judge included, bowing down at their every behest, flip-flops or not.

‘Thank you for coming to court today, Mr Gordon-Russell,’ continued the prosecution barrister. ‘I hope the journey wasn’t too onerous for you, especially in your, shall we say, delicate condition.’

He made it sound as if I were eight and a half months pregnant.

‘No,’ I replied. ‘The journey was fine, thank you.’

‘Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to sit down? The usher will bring you a chair.’

‘I may need to later,’ I said. ‘But I will stand for the time being.’

If anything the poor man looked rather disappointed and I realised too late that, as DS Dowdeswell had suggested, the prosecution were attempting to use my physical incapacity as a lever to extract greater sympathy from the jury.

‘Now, Mr Gordon-Russell,’ he went on. ‘I intend taking you through the events of last October. We will try and keep everything in chronological order and I would appreciate it if you could tell the jury everything and anything that you consider might be relevant to them in making up their minds as to the circumstances of the case. I should warn you, however, against making any form of speculation or opinion. It is for the jury to make their own assessment of the evidence. Just confine yourself to the facts as you remember them. Do you understand?’

I nodded at him. ‘Yes.’

‘Good. So could you please tell the jury where and when you last saw your wife, and where you were, and how you discovered that she had been murdered.’

I knew this would be where he would start. He had told me so beforehand. And I had tried to prepare myself but, even so, I found the next hour or so, while describing the events of that Tuesday evening and Wednesday morning, far more difficult than I had expected.

I told the jury how I had left home, leaving Amelia in the garden and how she had waved at me as I drove away. I explained how I had called home when I’d arrived at the hotel and then gone to a charity dinner. I told them how I had been unable to contact Amelia on the Wednesday morning but hadn’t been overly concerned. Not, that was, until I had been informed by the police at Warwick Racecourse that my wife had been murdered.

‘Take your time,’ the barrister said to me as I took some deep breaths to prevent myself from bursting into tears — and I was determined not to do that.

‘How would you describe your relationship with your brother-in-law, the defendant?’

‘Hostile,’ I said. ‘Especially on his side towards me.’

‘Has it always been like that?’

‘Not at all. For many years we got on well. We visited each other’s homes. Joe was an usher at my wedding, and our families were close. Amelia especially loved her young nieces.’

‘So when did it all go wrong?’

‘About four years ago. When Amelia and Joe’s mother moved from Weybridge to near Chipping Norton. Joe seemed to become insanely jealous of the closeness between Amelia and her mother and he clearly set out to destroy it.’

‘Did that affect the bond between the siblings?’

‘Absolutely,’ I said. ‘They had been close as children, with Amelia often telling me that she used to look out for her little brother at school but, over the last three years of her life, Amelia grew to hate him over what he was doing to her. She couldn’t even stand talking about him and wanted nothing to do with him ever again.’

‘So she wouldn’t have invited him into her home on the day she died?’

‘No way,’ I said, glancing over towards the dock. ‘She wouldn’t have invited him anywhere, ever.’

Joe was staring at me intensely through the glass and he moved as if to stand up, but one of the security officers put a hand on his arm and he slowly relaxed back into the chair.

I turned back to the prosecutor.

‘And how would you describe your own relationship with your wife?’

‘Very loving,’ I replied. ‘Amelia was not only my wife, she was also my best friend. She was my constant companion, my confidante and my lover.’

My voice almost broke and I fought back the tears once again. It was talking about her in the past tense that I found so distressing.

‘I think we will break for lunch now,’ announced the judge, looking up from his copious note-taking. ‘Mr Gordon-Russell, you may take the time to compose yourself. We will restart at two o’clock.’

‘All rise,’ shouted the usher, and everyone did. The prosecution and defence barristers bowed towards the judge and he returned the gesture, before departing through his own special door. Then the jury filed out through theirs. Joe was taken out of the dock by the security officers through yet another door, and finally I shuffled unsteadily across the court, out to the lobby, and back down to the witness services suite.

At least, with all these separate entrances and exits, I wouldn’t run into my brother-in-law by accident, as had happened outside the Coroner’s Court.

‘Well done,’ said DS Dowdeswell, who was waiting for me. ‘Bit of an ordeal, isn’t it? Do you fancy a coffee or a bite to eat?’

‘Something to eat would be great.’

He went to the canteen and returned with ham and cheese sandwiches, plus two cups of coffee.

‘Overly generous,’ I commented, somewhat flippantly.

‘Court expenses,’ he said, making sure he put the till receipt carefully in his wallet.

We sat down.

‘It seems to be going pretty well so far,’ I said. ‘Have I said the right things?’

The DS shook his head. ‘I can’t discuss your evidence with you, but it always does seem to go well when the prosecution are asking you the questions. But it will be a different matter when you get cross-examined. And you need to be very careful with this particular defence barrister. He’s a right slimy eel. He’ll do his best to tie you in knots and get you contradicting yourself. He’ll also try to convince the jury that you’re lying, so watch out. Never hesitate or he’ll jump at you.’

It sounded like a barrel of laughs.

‘And if he asks you something you don’t know, say so. Don’t let him lead you off on a tangent, and then agree with him that he might be right — because he won’t be.’

‘I thought they weren’t allowed to ask leading questions.’

He gave me a look that I took to mean ‘Don’t be so naive.’

‘I remind you, Mr Gordon-Russell, that you are still under oath.’

‘Yes, my lord,’ I replied to the judge.

We were all back in court after the lunch break, everyone in their allotted places.

The prosecuting barrister briefly went back over the events that we had covered during the morning, as if to emphasise the horror of discovering one’s wife had been murdered, and to remind the jury of its significance.

‘Now, Mr Gordon-Russell,’ he said finally. ‘Let us move on to the events of the last Wednesday in October, exactly two weeks after the murder of your wife, the day on which the defendant also attempted to kill you .’

The judge raised his eyes from his note-taking and gave the barrister a stare as if to admonish him slightly for his forwardness. But he said nothing.

‘Please could you describe to the jury what happened to you on that afternoon, specifically concerning your visit to the Waitrose supermarket in Banbury.’

I wanted to tell him, and the jury, that it wasn’t the first time Joe Bradbury had tried to kill me. I wanted to tell them that on the Saturday prior to the last Wednesday in October, Joe had tried to stab me with a carving knife and I had only escaped thanks to the timely intervention of his mother.