Jeffrey Archer - A Prisoner Of Birth

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Danny Cartwright and Spencer Craig never should have met. One evening, Danny, an East End cockney who works as a garage mechanic, takes his fianceé up to the West End to celebrate their engagement. He crosses the path of Spencer Craig, a West End barrister posed to be the youngest Queen's Counsel of his generation.
A few hours later Danny is arrested for murder and later is sentenced to twenty-two years in prison, thanks to irrefutable testimony from Spencer, the prosecution's main witness.
Danny spends the next few years in a high-security prison while Spencer Craig's career as a lawyer goes straight up. All the while Danny plans to escape and wreak his revenge.
Thus begins Jeffrey Archer's poignant novel of deception, hatred and vengeance, in which only one of them can finally triumph while the other will spend the rest of his days in jail. But which one will triumph? This suspenseful novel takes the listener through so many twists and turns that no one will guess the ending, even the most ardent of Archer's many, many fans.

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"Changed your mind about what?" asked Beth.

"Who would be taking over the garage when I retired."

CHAPTER SEVEN

"NO MORE QUESTIONS, my lord," said Alex Redmayne.

The judge thanked Detective Sergeant Fuller, and told him he was free to leave the court.

It had not been a good day for Alex. Lawrence Davenport had mesmerized the jury with his charm and good looks. DS Fuller had come across as a decent, conscientious officer who reported exactly what he'd seen that night, and the only interpretation he could put on it, and when Alex pressed him on his relationship with Craig, he simply repeated the word "professional." Later, when Pearson asked him how long it was between Craig making the 999 call and Fuller entering the bar, Fuller had said he couldn't be sure, but he thought it would have been around fifteen minutes.

As for the barman, Reg Jackson, he just repeated parrot-like that he was only getting on with his job and hadn't seen or heard a thing.

Redmayne accepted that if he was to find a chink in the armor of the four musketeers, his only hope now rested with Toby Mortimer. Redmayne knew all about the man's drug habit, although he had no intention of referring to it in court. He knew that nothing else would be on Mortimer's mind while he was being cross-examined. Redmayne felt that Mortimer was the one Crown witness who might buckle under pressure, which was why he was pleased he'd been kept waiting in the corridor all day.

"I think we have just enough time for one more witness," said Mr. Justice Sackville as he glanced at his watch.

Mr. Pearson didn't appear quite as enthusiastic to call the Crown's last witness. After reading the detailed police report, he had even considered not calling Toby Mortimer at all, but he knew that if he failed to do so, Redmayne would become suspicious and might even subpoena him. Pearson rose slowly from his place. "I call Mr. Toby Mortimer," he said.

The usher stepped into the corridor and roared, "Toby Mortimer!" He was surprised to find that the man was no longer seated in his place. He'd seemed so keen to be called earlier. The usher checked carefully up and down the benches, but there was no sign of him. He shouted the name even louder a second time, but still there was no response.

A pregnant young woman looked up from the front row, unsure if she was allowed to address the usher. The usher's eyes settled on her. "Have you seen Mr. Mortimer, madam?" he asked in a softer tone.

"Yes," she replied, "he went off to the toilets some time ago but he hasn't returned."

"Thank you, madam." The usher disappeared back into the courtroom. He walked quickly over to the associate, who listened carefully before briefing the judge.

"We'll give him a few more minutes," said Mr. Justice Sackville.

Redmayne kept glancing at his watch, becoming more anxious as each minute slipped by. It didn't take that long to go to the lavatory-unless… Pearson leaned across, smiled, and helpfully suggested, "Perhaps we should leave this witness until first thing in the morning?"

"No, thank you," Redmayne replied firmly. "I'm happy to wait." He went over his questions again, underlining relevant words so that he wouldn't have to keep glancing down at his crib sheet. He looked up the moment the usher came back into court.

The usher hurried across the courtroom and whispered to the associate, who passed the information on to the judge. Mr. Justice Sackville nodded. "Mr. Pearson," he said. The prosecution counsel rose to his feet. "It appears that your final witness has been taken ill, and is now on his way to hospital." He didn't add, with a needle sticking out of a vein in his left leg. "I therefore intend to close proceedings for the day. I would like to see both counsel in my chambers immediately."

Alex Redmayne didn't need to attend chambers to be told that his trump card had been removed from the pack. As he closed the file marked Crown Witnesses , he accepted that the fate of Danny Cartwright now rested in the hands of his fiancée, Beth Wilson. And he still couldn't be sure if she was telling the truth.

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE FIRST WEEK of the trial was over and the four main protagonists spent their weekends in very different ways.

Alex Redmayne drove down to Somerset to spend a couple of days with his parents in Bath. His father began quizzing him about the trial even before he'd closed the front door, while his mother seemed more interested in finding out about his latest girlfriend.

"Some hope," he said to both parental inquiries.

By the time Alex left for London on Sunday afternoon, he had rehearsed the questions he intended to put to Beth Wilson the following day, with his father acting as the judge. Not a difficult task for the old man. After all, that was exactly what he had done for the past twenty years before retiring.

"Sackville tells me you're holding your own," his father reported, "but he feels you sometimes take unnecessary risks."

"That may be the only way I can find out if Cartwright is innocent."

"That's not your job," responded his father. "That's for the jury to decide."

"Now you're sounding like Mr. Justice Sackville," Alex said with a laugh.

"It's your job," continued his father, ignoring the comment, "to present the best possible defense for your client, whether he is guilty or not."

His father had clearly forgotten that he'd first proffered this piece of advice when Alex was seven years old, and had repeated it countless times since. By the time Alex went up to Oxford as an undergraduate, he was ready to sit his law degree.

"And Beth Wilson, what sort of witness do you imagine she'll make?" his father asked.

"A distinguished silk once told me," replied Alex, tugging the lapels of his jacket pompously, "that you can never anticipate how a witness will turn out until they enter the box."

Alex's mother burst out laughing. "Touché," she said as she cleared the plates and disappeared into the kitchen.

"And don't underestimate Pearson," said his father, ignoring his wife's interruption. "He's at his best when it comes to cross-examining a defense witness."

"Is it possible to underestimate Mr. Arnold Pearson QC?" asked Alex, smiling.

"Oh, yes, I did so to my cost on two occasions."

"So were two innocent men convicted of crimes they didn't commit?" asked Alex.

"Certainly not," replied his father. "Both of them were as guilty as sin, but I still should have got them off. Just remember, if Pearson spots a weakness in your defense he'll return to it again and again, until he's sure that it's the one point the jury remember when they retire."

"Can I interrupt learned counsel, to ask how Susan is?" asked his mother as she poured Alex a coffee.

"Susan?" said Alex, snapping back into the real world.

"That charming girl you brought down to meet us a couple of months ago."

"Susan Rennick? I've no idea. I'm afraid we've lost touch. I don't think the Bar is compatible with having a personal life. Heaven knows how you two ever got together."

"Your mother fed me every night during the Carbarshi trial. If I hadn't married her, I would have died of starvation."

"That easy?" said Alex, grinning at his mother.

"Not quite that easy," she replied. "After all, the trial lasted for over two years-and he lost."

"No, I didn't," said his father, placing an arm around his wife's waist. "Just be warned, my boy, Pearson's not married, so he'll be spending his entire weekend preparing devilish questions for Beth Wilson."

***

They hadn't granted him bail.

Danny had spent the past six months locked up in Belmarsh high-security prison in southeast London. He languished for twenty-two hours a day in a cell eight foot by six, the sole furnishings a single bed, a formica table, a plastic chair, a small steel washbasin and a steel lavatory. A tiny barred window high above his head was his only view of the outside world. Every afternoon they allowed him out of the cell for forty-five minutes, when he would jog around the perimeter of a barren yard-a concrete acre surrounded by a sixteen-foot wall topped with razor wire.

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