Jeffrey Archer - A Prisoner Of Birth

Danny couldn't resist looking across the road, where a newly painted sign had recently been put in place: Cartwright's Garage, Under New Management . Once he'd completed the negotiations and agreed a price with Monty Hughes, Munro had drawn up a contract that would allow Danny to take over a business that he would be able to commute to each morning by crossing the road.

The Swiss bankers had made it clear that they considered Danny had paid far too high a price for the garage on the other side of the road. Danny didn't bother to explain to Segat the difference between the words price and value , as he doubted if either he or Bresson would have spent much time with Mr. Oscar Wilde.

And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity .

Danny gripped his wife's hand. Tomorrow they would fly to Rome for a much-delayed honeymoon, during which they would try to forget that when they returned they would have to face another long trial before the ordeal would finally be over. Their ten-week-old son chose that moment to express his feelings by bursting into tears, and not in memory of Sir Nicholas Moncrieff, but simply because he felt that the service had gone on for far too long, and in any case, he was hungry.

"Shh," said Beth soothingly. "It won't be much longer before we can all go home," his mother promised as she took Nick in her arms.

In the name of the father and of the son…

"BRING UP THE prisoners."

Court number four at the Old Bailey was packed long before ten o'clock in the forenoon, but then, it was not every day that a Queen's Counsel, a Member of Parliament and a popular actor were arraigned on charges of murder, affray and conspiracy to pervert the course of justice.

Counsel's bench was littered with legal luminaries who were checking files, arranging documents and in one case putting final touches to an opening speech, as they waited for the prisoners to take their place in the dock.

All three defendants were being represented by the most eminent legal minds their solicitors could instruct, and the talk in the corridors of the Old Bailey was that as long as they all stuck to their original story, it was doubtful if any twelve jurors would be able to reach a unanimous verdict. The chatter subsided when Spencer Craig, Gerald Payne and Lawrence Davenport took their places in the dock.

Craig was so conservatively dressed in a dark blue pinstriped suit, white shirt and his favorite mauve tie that it appeared as if he had entered through the wrong door, and that it should have been he who was seated on counsel's bench waiting to deliver the opening speech.

Payne was wearing a dark gray suit, college tie and cream shirt, as befitted a Member of Parliament representing a rural seat. He appeared calm.

Davenport wore faded jeans, an open-necked shirt and a blazer. He was unshaven, which the press would describe the following morning as designer stubble; but they would also report that he looked as if he hadn't slept for several days. Davenport ignored the press benches and glanced up toward the public gallery, while Payne and Craig chatted to each other as if they were waiting to be served lunch in a busy restaurant. Once Davenport had checked to see that she was in her place, he stared blankly in front of him and waited for the judge to appear.

Everyone who had managed to secure a place in the packed courtroom rose as Mr. Justice Armitage entered. He waited for them to bow before returning the compliment, taking the middle seat on the bench. He smiled down benevolently as if this was just another day at the office. He instructed the court usher to bring in the jury. The usher bowed low before disappearing through a side door, to reappear moments later followed by the twelve citizens who had been selected by rote to sit in judgment on the three defendants.

Lawrence Davenport's barrister allowed the flicker of a smile to cross his face when he saw that the jury consisted of seven women and five men. He felt confident that the worst result would now be a hung jury.

As the jury took their places in the box, Craig studied them with intense interest, aware that they and they alone would decide his fate. He'd already briefed Larry to make eye contact with the women jurors as they only needed three who couldn't bear the idea of Lawrence Davenport being sent to jail. If Larry could just manage that simple task, they would all be set free. But Craig was annoyed to see that rather than obeying his simple instruction, Davenport appeared preoccupied and just stared fixedly in front of him.

Once the jury had settled, the judge invited the associate to read out the charges.

"Will the defendants please rise."

All three of them stood up.

"Spencer Malcolm Craig, you are charged that on the night of September eighteenth 1999 you did murder one Bernard Henry Wilson. How do you plead, guilty or not guilty?"

"Not guilty," said Craig defiantly.

"Gerald David Payne, you are charged that on the night of September eighteenth 1999 you were involved in an affray that ended in the death of Bernard Henry Wilson. How do you plead, guilty or not guilty?"

"Not guilty," said Payne firmly.

"Lawrence Andrew Davenport, you are charged with perverting the course of justice, in that on March twenty-third 2000, you gave evidence on oath that you knew to be false in a material particular. How do you plead, guilty or not guilty?"

Every eye in the courtroom was fixed on the actor, who found himself once again center stage. Lawrence Davenport raised his head and looked up into the public gallery, where his sister was seated at the end of the front row.

Sarah gave her brother a reassuring smile.

Davenport lowered his head, and for a moment seemed to hesitate before saying in a whisper that was barely audible, "Guilty."