Ian McEwan - The Children Act

“Another blot on his record,” Berner said, “was that back when Gallagher was fifteen he knocked a policeman’s helmet off. An idiotic prank. But down on the record as ‘assaulting a police officer.’”

Spring has come, my precious. It’s the blessed month of lovers .

The barrister was by her left elbow, in front of the music stand. In tight black jeans and black polo-neck sweater he reminded her of an old-fashioned beatnik. An impression only modified by the reading glasses suspended by a cord around his neck.

“D’you know, when Cranham told these lads what to expect, two of them said they wanted to start serving their time immediately. Meek as lambs, turkeys queuing for the oven. So Wayne Gallagher had to go with them, even though he wanted to be with his partner for one last week. She’d just had their baby. So I had to travel all the way out beyond east London to this dump to see him. Thamesmead.”

Fiona turned the page of her score. “I’ve been there,” she said. “Better than most.”

So come onto this mossy bank and let’s talk about our wondrous love…

“Get this,” Berner said. “Four London lads. Gallagher, Quinn, O’Rourke, Kelly. Third- or fourth-generation Irish. London accents. All went to the same school. A not-bad comprehensive. The arresting officer saw the names and decided they were tinkers. That’s why he didn’t bother going after the other four. That’s why the CPS went for joint enterprise. They use it for gangs. Very tidy. Nice clean lazy sweep.”

“Mark,” she murmured. “We should get to work.”

“I’m almost done.”

As it happened, the brawl took place in full view of two CCTV cameras.

“The angles were perfect. You could see everyone. And in muted colors. Pin bloody sharp. Martin Scorsese couldn’t have done it better.”

Berner had four days to get his mind around the case, to play and replay the DVD and memorize the shifting movements of an eight-minute brawl caught from two camera positions, to learn by rote every step of his client and the other seven. He watched the men’s first contact, on the wide pavement between a shuttered shop and a phone box, an angry verbal exchange, a little pushing, puffed chests, male swagger, the amorphous crowd swaying this way and that, spilling at one point over the curb, onto the road. A hand gripped a forearm, the heel of another hand shoved a shoulder. Then Wayne Gallagher, who was at the back of the group, raised an arm and, unfortunately for him, struck the first blow, and then another. But his fist was too high, he was too far back, his movements were impeded by the beer can in his other hand. His blows were ineffectual and the man he hit barely noticed. Now the group split untidily in two. At this point, Gallagher, still on the edges, threw his beer can. It was an underarm toss. The intended target brushed away some spots of beer from his lapel. In retribution, one of the other four stepped round and whacked Gallagher hard in the face, splitting his lip and terminating his involvement. He stood still, dazed, then moved away from the fighting, out of the cameras’ view.

The fight continued without him. One of the school friends, O’Rourke, stepped in and, with a single blow, floored the one who hit Gallagher. As soon as the man was down, another friend, Kelly, kicked him and fractured his jaw. Half a minute later, a second man went down, and this time it was Quinn who kicked him, breaking his cheek. When the police arrived, the fellow who hit Gallagher got to his feet and ran off to hide in his girlfriend’s flat. He was concerned about being arrested and losing his job.

Fiona looked at her watch. “Mark…”

“Almost done, My Lady. The point is, my guy just stood there waiting for the police. Face covered in blood. As much sinned against, et cetera. Bones were broken, so it’s GBH. The police charged all four on various counts. But in court the prosecution pushed for joint enterprise and sentence at level 2 GBH on the guidelines, which are five to nine years. Same old story. My client played no part in that violence. He was about to be sentenced for crimes that others committed and with which he wasn’t even charged. He’d pleaded not guilty. He should have owned up to an affray, but I wasn’t there to advise. Legal aid should have showed the jury the police photo of his bloodied face. In any case, the chap with the fractured jaw refused to file a victim statement. Came to court as a prosecution witness. Said he didn’t understand the fuss. Told the judge he hadn’t needed treatment, went on holiday to Spain two days after the fight. First couple of days he had to sip his vodka through a straw. End of story—his very words. It’s in the court transcript.”

Continuing to listen, she spread her fingers over a chord but did not play it. Let’s head for home, laden with wild strawberries .

“Obviously, nothing I could do about the jury’s verdict. I spoke for seventy-five minutes, trying to detach Wayne from the rest, trying to get the GBH down to level 3. Guidelines are three to five years. Also, made a solid case that the law owed him six months’ liberty on the groundless rape charge. Then he would have been within reach of a suspended sentence, which was all this stupidity was worth. The other three legal-aid counsels spoke for ten minutes each for their clients. Cranham summed up. Lazy bastard. Okay, level 3, thank God, but he wouldn’t let go of joint enterprise, and completely forgot to address what I’d said about the time the law owed my client. Gave them all two and a half years. Lazy and perverse. But in the gallery the parents of the others were sobbing with relief. They’d been looking at a minimum five years. I’d done them all a favor, I suppose.”

Fiona said, “The judge used his discretion to go below the guidelines. Count yourself lucky.”

“Not the point, Fiona.”

“Let’s start. We’ve got less than an hour.”

“Hear me out. This is my resignation speech. All these guys were in employment. They’re taxpayers, for heaven’s sake! My man caused no harm. Against the odds, given his background, he was turning out to be a hands-on dad. Kelly was running a youth football team in his spare time. O’Rourke worked at weekends for a cystic fibrosis charity. This wasn’t an attack on innocent passersby. It was a scuffle outside a pub.”

She looked up from the score. “A broken cheek?”

“All right. A brawl. Between consenting adults. What’s the point of stuffing the prisons with these guys? Gallagher swung two harmless punches and tossed a near-empty beer can. Two and a half years. GBH on his record forever for offenses he wasn’t charged with. They’re sending him to Isis, that young offenders’ place, you know, inside the walls of Belmarsh. I’ve been out there a few times. The website says they have a ‘learning academy.’ Total crap! I’ve had clients there in the cells twenty-three hours a day. The courses get canceled every week. Understaffed, they say. Cranham with his put-on weariness, pretending to be too irritable to listen to anyone. What does he care what happens to these kids? Poured into these dumps, turning sour, learning to be criminals. D’you know what my biggest mistake was?”

“What?”

“I tried to make the point that this was a case of drink and high spirits. The violence was consensual. ‘If these four gentlemen had been members of the Bullingdon Club at Oxford they wouldn’t be before you now, Your Honor.’ On a horrible hunch, when I got home, I looked Cranham up in Who’s Who . Guess what?”

“Oh God. Mark, you need a holiday.”

“Face it, Fiona. It’s bloody class warfare.”

“And in the Family Division it’s all champagne and fraises des bois .”