James Long - Sixth Column

Johnny had a moment to look around as the judge brought out a brown leather pencil case from which he took a wooden ruler and a bottle of Quink. He began to rule columns in a green book. Johnny wondered what they were, ‘For’ and ‘Against’ perhaps.

Wigs were everywhere below. Some of them looked infinitely old and dusty as though millennia of bookworms might be nesting in them.

Lisa Gardiner was not the only woman. There was a junior on the prosecution side, got up in that odd way that judges have been able to impose on the females of the law – dark make-up, strapped in, severe drawn-back hair. The sexiness of the high-class dominatrix – the price of being allowed to play the legal game.

The clerk of the court, in front of and some way below the judge’s bench, stood up, climbed on to his chair and turned to have a whispered conversation with him.

Then, suddenly and sickeningly, ‘Call Heather Weston.’

It came as a shock to see Heather brought into the dock, flanked by guards from Group 4. Johnny thought how disconcertingly different she looked, that attractive, generous face now focused and intent as if an alternative set of muscles had been brought into play. She glanced up at the gallery, waved at Margo and the group of her supporters gathered at one end. She went on looking at them, searching and then her gaze found Johnny, separately, off to one side. She gave him a little nod and he put his thumb up. She looked sad suddenly and turned her face away.

There was no jury yet. Johnny believed he would at any moment hear the prosecution dramatically announce they were not proceeding but instead an argument started between the barristers and the judge about the evidence. Dr Beevor’s statement lay at the heart of it. Lisa Gardiner explained the background of their inability to bring Dr Beevor to court, even bringing in the plane crash. The prosecuting barrister, Alan Reynolds, refused to accept the documents without the opportunity to cross-examine Dr Beevor. The judge agreed with him, looked at his watch, scribbled a note and said, ‘Let the jury panel be brought in.’

A line of men and women filed in to the benches at the back of the court and were called by name, one at a time, into the witness box.

Johnny looked at them and his heart sank further. They all looked like pillars of society. Two of the women could just have had mild Liberal tendencies on a good day. The others looked like Sun -reading Tories. There were three large short-haired middle-aged men, all in leather jackets.

Why let it go this far, thought Johnny? If they’re dropping it, why let the jury in? He looked all around hoping for he knew not what. A glimpse of the American? A clue to coming salvation? There was no sign of anything to interrupt the slow juggernaut of the law. All he could see was Jo in her chair, tucked away in a corner of the main court down below – a privilege allowed because of the lack of wheelchair access to the gallery.

He became aware of the words now being spoken, the dry legal bullets aimed one by one at Heather’s body down in the dock.

‘…that on that date, at Ramsgill Stray Station, she did assault George Arthur Hayter, thereby occasioning grievous bodily harm. Prisoner in the dock, how do you plead?’

‘Not guilty.’ Heather’s voice sounded strong.

Johnny’s heart went out to her. One of the leather-jacketed men in the jury sniffed loudly.

The prosecution opened. The barrister injected just sufficient righteous contempt into his voice that Johnny, even though he knew it was simply a professional trick, felt a strong urge to go down and warn him to watch the way he spoke.

‘…contrary to Section 47 of the Offences Against the Person Act 1861, she did on that day violently strike Sergeant George Hayter, a long-serving and loyal member of the Ministry of Defence Police, with a weapon, namely a section of timber…’

He droned on, laying out the bones of the prosecution case. Johnny felt despair rise. He’d been tricked, he knew that now with complete certainty. Heather would go to prison. He would be stopped on leaving the court, stopped when they knew he must have the papers on him. They’d be sure to find them. He felt the papers, stiff through the lining of his jacket. What could he do? Give them to one of the other women? Would that help? They might all be searched.

‘…the incident took place at the Ministry of Defence’s base at Ramsgill Stray…’

The Ministry of Defence? Who was this man trying to kid?

‘…a base whose work is covered by the strictures of the Official Secrets Act but whose function is absolutely central to our national security. Miss Weston is no stranger to the base. On at least one hundred and twenty-three occasions, she has gained access to it in order to…’

Johnny looked away and scanned the court again. There was nothing anywhere to suggest the slightest hope. The air was thick and hot up in the gallery. He yawned, mused, fell into a muggy day-dream of being loved.

It was Sergeant Hayter’s arrival in the witness box that brought him snapping back to the horrid reality of a present in which one of his dearest was in hospital and the other was in the dock.

He looked at Hayter, fascinated, as the policeman took the oath and confirmed his identity. The man was red in the face but he looked horribly calm and composed.

Reynolds led him through the events of that day.

‘Where were you at ten o’clock that morning?’

‘I was in the office.’

‘That would be the MOD Police office inside the main gate of Ramsgill Stray?’

‘That’s correct.’

‘Were you called on the radio?’

‘Yes. At ten oh five I received a call advising me that Miss Weston had been spotted at the entrance to bunker nine and requesting me to attend urgently.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I got in a van with PC Hoskin and drove straight there.’

‘And at what time did you arrive?’

‘Within two or three minutes of the call.’

‘On arrival, what did you observe?’

‘I saw the accused standing in the foyer to the bunker.’

‘Was she known to you?’

Sergeant Hayter snorted and looked at the jury, who seemed to be hanging on his every word. ‘I have had occasion to remove Miss Weston from the base on many, many occasions. She breaks in all the time. If you ask me, she’s obsessed by—’

‘Objection,’ said Lisa Gardiner.

‘Would you confine yourself to fact rather than conjecture, Sergeant Hayter,’ said the judge mildly.

‘What action did you then take, Sergeant?’

‘I sent PC Hoskin off to make sure there were none of the other women in the vicinity.’

‘This left you and Miss Weston alone?’

‘Yes.’

‘And what happened then?’

‘I turned away for a moment and when I turned back she had a large piece of timber in her hands and was swinging it at my head. It hit me across the nose.’

‘Breaking your nose and causing considerable bruising to your left eye?’

Hayter suddenly seemed under strain. His face grew redder. There was a sheen of sweat on his brow.

‘Yes. I staggered back, saying something like, “Now then, there’s no need for that, Miss Weston,” and she swung it at me again. I had blood in my eyes and I couldn’t see very well. I tried to protect myself. I was flailing around with my arms. I think I must have contacted Miss Weston as she was lunging at me again because she seemed to trip and—’ Hayter broke off and stared at Heather for some time. Johnny wondered whether he could possibly be feeling any embarrassment. It seemed unlikely.

The barrister prompted him gently. ‘Yes?’

Hayter’s voice sounded thicker. ‘And she went back against the wall, didn’t she? Hit her head on it.’