Brian Freemantle - A Mind to Kill

‘What mind?’ dismissed the solicitor, allowing the contemptuous cynicism.

Hall shrugged but didn’t bother with a reply. He was taking the only defence course open to him with Jennifer Lomax but he couldn’t lose the feeling that he was in some way failing her.

Preoccupied as she was by space – or lack of it – Jennifer was surprised by the comparative smallness of the court. Her expected imagery came from films and television, invariably American, in which legal surroundings barely achieved their supposed officialdom from just the raised dais for the judge and the pen for the jury, but otherwise looked like church halls.

Where she was going to be tried didn’t look anything like a church hall and scarcely appeared half the size of one. Jeremy Hall’s word – tradition – came immediately into her still clear mind as Jennifer entered the dock and gazed around her, registering everything. The brass-railed dock that was to be her place for the duration of the trial dominated the floor of the court, only slightly lower in its elevated height to the carved, wood-canopied and Royal emblem-surmounted bench from which the judge would preside, from the huge and momentarily unoccupied red leather, button-backed throne.

In the well of the court, seemingly far below her, were the bewigged and raven-robed barristers – Jeremy Hall’s wig was far whiter, his robe far newer than any around him – with their instructing junior counsel and solicitors in battle-ready formation behind: surrounded by so many artificial headpieces, Humphrey Perry’s domed bald head stood out like a pebble in a stream. Facing them but directly below the judge’s position was the robed and wigged court clerk with other officials and to their left a bespectacled, grey-haired woman at a stenograph.

The press gallery was behind her and already full, a flurry and buzz of attention erupting the moment Jennifer’s head appeared above the rail. A girl in a jean suit and a bearded man at the very edge of the gallery immediately began sketching in large pads, heads jerking up and down like mechanical dolls as they tried to capture her likeness. The jury box was on the opposite side of the court to the press, tiered up on two levels. Remembering the downstairs cell conversation, she counted ten women and two men. They all concentrated upon her entry but with less noise than the press opposite. The public gallery was behind and above, far too high for her to see how many people were in it. From the noise she guessed it to be crowded. The seat towards which her two escorts gestured her was centred in the dock to micrometer exactness and appeared heavily padded until she sat down. The leather didn’t give, remaining rock hard and Jennifer accepted it was going to be an uncomfortable experience physically as well as in a lot of other respects.

Down in his pit far below Hall turned unexpectedly, catching her eye. He smiled and nodded to her. She was unsure whether to respond but in the end nodded back, although she didn’t smile. With the barrister facing in his direction, Perry leaned forward for a huddled conversation. Hall’s smile died, his face at once serious. There were more jerky nods of agreement before he turned back to the still empty bench.

There was a cough inside Jennifer’s head.

‘The court will rise,’ demanded the court clerk, loudly.

It did, in straggled unison. Jennifer had been ready, aware of the clerk preparing to make the announcement, but the unintended movement surged through her as she rose. It would have brought her forward in a jump that might have spread-eagled her over the bar of the dock if she hadn’t been ready for that, too. As it was she staggered forward and clutched out for the rail, needing to cling to it in the effort to suppress the uncoordinated vibrations that racked through her body, violent enough to have thrown her off her feet if she hadn’t been holding on. She felt the wardresses at either arm, holding her, and saw the entering judge stop and stare red-faced towards her. His attention directed that of the lawyers, most of whom turned. The jury and media were already gazing at her in astonishment, several of the journalists scribbling hurriedly.

‘Mr Hall!’ demanded Jarvis, still standing. ‘Is your client unwell?’

Beside her the chatty wardress from the prison van whispered, ‘Come on love, don’t bugger about. It won’t help.’

Perry was already scurrying around to the edge of the dock, just able to get his chin over the edge. Having done so there was nothing for him to say. Lamely he said to the escorts, ‘Is she going to be all right?’

The two women had prised Jennifer’s hands free themselves to support her, still shaking, back to her chair. Having got her there they remained holding her up because Jarvis was still standing.

‘It’s all right,’ hissed Jennifer, as the sensation subsided. ‘Sorry.’

At a nod from the returning Perry, Hall said, ‘I crave the court’s indulgence, my Lord. A momentary incapacitation.’

‘Which I hope does not recur,’ said Jarvis, finally sitting.

As Jennifer was lowered on to the rock-hard seat the laughing started in her head, hysterical, and Jane said, ‘ How’s that for openers! And they ain’t seen nuthin yet! ’

‘Beat you. Stopped it happening,’ mumbled Jennifer, softly, her head lowered to conceal the lip movement as she’d tried to conceal it in hospital from the guarding policewomen. She ached, painfully, from the effort of holding herself against the unintended movement.

‘ Not enough. Everyone saw. Are still looking. ’

A lot still were, from the jury and the media, although the lawyers had turned to look in Jarvis’s direction. Small though the court appeared to Jennifer, the judge was still dwarfed by his surroundings.

‘The prisoner will stand,’ declared the clerk and Jennifer was unable to prevent herself wincing.

Getting unsteadily to her feet again, Jennifer muttered, ‘Help me,’ to the wardresses, who closed in tightly. It was fortunate they did and that Jennifer additionally snatched out for the rail again. All feeling vanished instantly from her left leg. She swayed into the escort on that side, who grabbed her arm, taking her weight. It hurt where she’d been cut. As the clerk read out the formal murder charge, Jennifer felt the support disappearing from her other leg and knew the two women could not hold her entire weight. Suddenly the feeling came back. Then seeped away again. Then returned, causing Jennifer to bob up and down, despite the effort of the other two women to keep her stable. Through misted eyes Jennifer saw Hall on his feet, only vaguely aware of his returning a plea of not guilty on her behalf. The women virtually carried her back to the chair again. As they sat her down, one said, ‘You sure you don’t need a doctor?’

As quickly as it had gone, all the feeling – although still with the numbness of Jane’s presence – rushed back and the voice said, ‘ Don’t want any doctors, taking you back to hospital and spoiling things! Maybe I’ll take a little rest. But then again, maybe I won’t. ’

‘I’m all right,’ Jennifer said, to the enquiring woman. She felt physically drained, the ache in her arms and legs and body worse than after the first attack. Now the tension had gone her legs were shaking, although sufficiently below the wall of the dock for it not to be visible to anyone except the women now seated beside and slightly behind her.

As the older barrister rose ponderously to his feet and like the actor he was paused to get the attention of his audience, Jennifer forced herself to concentrate, knowing that her future, her everything, depended upon every word and every nuance that was going to be uttered or conveyed in the coming days.

There was a lot of what Jennifer supposed Hall had meant by ritual, the judge always addressed as my Lord and Keflin-Brown describing Hall as his learned friend and phrases like ‘may it please the court’ used as verbal commas and parentheses before Keflin-Brown turned to face the jury to outline the case he assured them he would prove beyond any reasonable doubt.