Dark Angels (30 page)

I pushed my way through the public throng as the almost indistinguishable cry of the Macer reverberated around the hallowed hall

‘Her Majesty’s Advocate against Kailash Coutts, calling in court 9.’

The black cotton felt heavy and warm as I pulled its voluminous weight around my shoulders. If I were Queen’s Counsel, I would have silk, not cotton–one of the many privileges of rank. Nonetheless, I have some additional status shown by gown; an extra flap of black cotton hangs from my shoulder like a badly repaired tear. It may not look like much but it indicates to the court, and to my learned friends, that I have addressed the House of Lords in an Appeal case.

‘Her Majesty’s Advocate against Kailash Coutts.’ The Macer spoke again over the microphone–in this garbled manner he called us to business. I hurried to court 9, almost tripping over my gown as Glasgow Joe trailed behind me, uncomfortable in a grey pinstriped suit and conservative blue tie. The stripes on his suit were too far apart to make him appear legal: with his stature and demeanour he looked more like a member of the Celtic mafia.

‘Do you need so many different bits of paper? And what’s with all the poncey bits of pink ribbon? You trying to give me a red face?’ he said, dramatically blowing a piece of pink cotton tape away from his nose.

‘You insisted on clerking to me. I didn’t advertise a bloody vacancy.’ I spoke to him over my shoulder whilst I was still pushing forwards.

‘I’m here to keep you safe, you narky bint–not be your bloody donkey.’

It was impossible to get near the Counsels’ doorway because the queue to get in the public entrance had snaked out to the Great Hall and was blocking my access.

‘Joe, go in front–and see if you can make any headway here.’ I pushed him in front of me and snuck in behind his shoulder blades hoping to make progress.

‘Coming through, coming through,’ he shouted as he shrugged his great shoulders from side to side. Like the Red Sea, the crowd parted and I scampered along in his wake.

I had already been to the toilet three times that morning, and the griping pains in my stomach told me that I had to go again. I was not unduly concerned that I would disgrace myself in front of Lord MacDonald because this is a symptom I always got before appearing in court. I tried to think of it as Shitting Herself Lawyer Syndrome rather than IBS. A rampant dose of ‘the skitters’ always told me that I was ready to perform. Electricity flowed through my veins and I never felt more alive than when I was on my feet before a particularly vicious bench.

Lord MacDonald was new to me; I had rarely appeared before him, so I couldn’t form my own opinion. Consensus was that he was hard and appearing before him was like being repeatedly hit on the head with a claymore.

The files, papers and books that Joe was carrying reached from his groin to his chin. We had breached the outer door but we were unable to gain entry to the court because of the gaggle of young counsel peering in, hoping to get a glimpse of the infamous Kailash Coutts. Their wigs were pure white and unblemished like their skin. A white wig shows inexperience, and we all long for the dirty tarnished wigs of the weary old war-horses: which was why I had bought mine secondhand. After the purchase, I then stained it with tea bags, dried it in the oven, and dragged it round the floor for a couple of days. It looked great and no one had ever called me on it. There wasn’t much difference really between that and not wanting to be called names at school because you had pressed new jeans or gleaming white trainers on.

These youngsters were not veterans; they looked like schoolboys from Eton with hairpieces. One look from Joe and they pushed through the door, and then flattened themselves against the wood panelled walls to let us pass.

Court nine is the largest; presumably it was picked for the trial by the administrators to accommodate the pack that turned to face us as we walked in to take our seats. The public gallery is all on one level, and it consists of hard wooden benches. Its front rows were
filled with advocates wearing very expensive suits, their faces brown from the Tuscan sun. They wore immaculately ironed shirts, and cufflinks with the school crest, Patek Phillipe watches or Rolexes peeked out from beneath shirtsleeves.

I was reminded of the crowds that in the past attended public hangings. But who was being executed here? I harboured no illusions; many of my colleagues sitting there would just as happily have watched me brought to heel as Kailash brought to justice.

Some of my learned friends affected the dress of a bygone era. Mutton chop sideburns covered half their faces. These men wore their blacks with pride in the office, a black jacket and striped trousers. Their authentic antique fobs were hidden in the watch pocket of their waistcoat with only the heavy gold chain showing. It was a game, and they all had their costumes.

Here and there an advocate stood up to nod and acknowledge my presence. The Dean of the Faculty was one, and he was close enough for me to observe that the charm on his watch chain was a Rosy Cross. The showing of my brethren indicated that they expected me to do my duty. I searched hopefully for the libertarians, but sadly, they were absent. It seemed that individual human rights had no place here today.

Behind learned counsel sat the press pack; Jack Deans amongst them. A cold look, icy like the north-east wind, covered his face–I knew that it was actually concern for me. I didn’t have time for my bowels or my libido to ponder the scene in front of me.

‘Where do I sit?’ Joe hissed at me, anxiously looking
for the correct place, keen not to show the assembled crowd his ignorance.

‘You know I’ve never been on this side of the law before.’ He peered around anxiously as if the two court cops present were about to collar him.

‘Calm down…let me go in front. After all–you were the one who insisted.’

Joe had been adamant on accompanying me as my clerk–into the den of thieves, as he had renamed Parliament House after he had to pay counsel’s fee for an opinion on licensing law.

I sat down on the front bench, and pointed to him that he should sit behind me. I gave him a pen and paper.

‘Now if you want to be my paralegal then you’re going to have to pay attention…’

His eyes were already straying from mine, anxious to take in what was going on behind his back. Nipping his hand brought his concentration to me.

‘Write down what the judge says–write down what witnesses say…’ I had been over this forty times before, so we said in unison:

‘Especially when I am questioning–note down what the witness says.’

His eyes showed his fear of writing, of putting things down on paper. Lots of people suffer from it but it was something he was going to have to get over because I might have to rely on his notes when cross-examining. Joe had never really seen school as an educational process, more of an optional distraction. I generally switched off when people said they had been to the
school of hard knocks and had a degree from real life, but, with Joe, it was actually true. He learned more in the playground for the world he would end up in than he ever did in geography or maths. Now, however, although he probably felt he was back to taking notes on
Janet and John
, he was going to be a vital part of this over-educated environment. I doubted I was the only one needing to go to the toilet at that moment.

Hector McVie and his junior counsel, a bland young woman who I knew only by sight, idled in and sat on the front bench at the other side from us. His instructing solicitor sat behind with pen poised at the ready, surrounded by papers and books.

‘Are you sure you’re prepared for this, Brodie?’ McVie placed his arm proprietorially along the bench encompassing his junior, and acknowledging his instructing solicitor. Casting his eye over Joe he threw me a withering look. A crooked smile greased his lips. Actually, I admired his gamesmanship and recognised it for exactly that. He was basically a good guy, but he knew as much as I did that there were rules to follow and roles to play. Hector was pointing out that I was a junior; out of my league in a case like this. Silks, attended to by junior counsel, defend most murder cases. Both his instructing solicitor and junior were older than me. Smiling a cheesy grin that belied both my worries and my churning stomach, I turned to speak to Joe–ensuring that the flap of material on my gown flounced as I turned, for Hector had never been instructed to appear at the House of Lords.

‘What’s all that about–the smiling and the tossing
of the hair?’ asked Joe. Before I could answer, Bunny MacGregor walked in, unaccompanied, and took her seat just behind Hector McVie’s solicitor. There was a rumble in the court as all the advocates present stood up to bow before her. I alone remained seated. It felt churlish, and, I must admit, wrong; eyes flicked between Bunny MacGregor and myself.

‘Get up,’ hissed Joe. ‘Everybody else is standing out of respect for the poor woman’s grief–it’s not her fault her man’s deid–and you’re in this trial, so show your manners.’ Grabbing my elbow he pushed me up. As I rose all other counsel sat down; standing out, I nodded my head in the direction of Bunny MacGregor recognising her loss.

Severely dressed in black, her formidable white hair was piled high on her head making her seem taller than her five feet eight inches. Looking at me her face got redder, and redder, and her eyes watered–somehow it made her look grief stricken rather than the annoyed harridan of a widow I had hoped.

‘Ms McLennan,’ she squeezed out through pursed lips. Before her I wilted, and sat down, anxious not to be in her firing range any longer.

‘That poor woman’s had it–she’ll no’ last the trial.’ Joe voiced his pity, and fell for the act that Bunny was plying to everyone else in the room.

A concealed door in the wooden panelling on the wall opened, and a stout female prison warden marched out. Her arrival heralded the announcement of the guest of honour.

Kailash sauntered in, her head held high, glossy black
hair rippling in the muted light of the courtroom. Collectively those on the public benches took a sharp intake of breath. A soft red velvet dress sheathed her body, enhancing, not hiding the curves. Sheer silk stockings led down to elegant Jimmy Choos. There had been no point in me advising her what to wear–she wouldn’t have listened, and, anyway, she knew this type of thing much better than I did. To me she looked like trouble. Every man there would think that she was trouble worth looking for.

Bunny MacGregor’s anger consumed her as Kailash walked in. Momentarily I wondered if there would be a cat fight, if Bunny would make a scene, reach over and pull Kailash’s hair–and part of me wished she would, thus giving my client the victim status she so desperately needed–but the moment passed and Bunny looked as though she had won the fight to keep her emotions in check.

‘At least that widow’s shamed Kailash into some sense of decency.’

‘Joe? Have you suddenly joined the Wee Frees? You sound like an outraged Kirk member instead of someone who makes his living pimping off bloody lap dancers.’

Joe chose to ignore me–even though I was clearly right–and continued his
Sunday Post
analysis of the situation.

‘Cannae even look the poor woman in the eye.’

He’d have been as well crossing his arms and tutting–but his stage whisper probably expressed the sentiments of the court.

Kailash had scanned the court taking in every detail, but she had studiously avoided Bunny MacGregor.

‘All rise.’

Before I could respond to Joe, the Macer walked in, silently announcing Lord MacDonald’s arrival on the bench. An awed hush fell over the courtroom as we all stood to greet the judge. He was a young man by judicial standards, probably in his fifties; it was hard to tell, because underneath his wig, his hair had been expertly tinted to match the raven shade of his youth. When he was seated comfortably, the assembled court was permitted to sit.

In the dock Kailash was free to lock her stare onto his, for in the High Court I was not allowed to act as a buffer between the bench and my client. As with Sheriff Strathclyde I felt it was Lord MacDonald who required the protection. Shifting uneasily under her gaze, he stared straight ahead. Bunny MacGregor was the only person whose eyes Kailash refused to meet, although Lord Arbuthnot’s widow was doing her utmost to ensure her dead husband’s alleged killer felt her presence.

It was Friday morning and the clock showed that it was 11.39. We should have just enough time to empanel the jury and then adjourn for the weekend.

‘Did you get the list?’ whispered Hector McVie’s junior to me.

‘This trial is being rushed–and that’s not my fault. I only got the jury list late last night.’ It’s hard to show displeasure when talking in hushed tones.

A courier from Crown Office had delivered to my house a list of all the jury members who were available
for this sitting. I had been dismayed to note the high proportion of women–you don’t want that on a jury, they are hard, much harder than men.

‘How many are you going to object to?’ asked Joe quietly.

‘You’ve been watching too many American shows–I’ve only got three objections, after that I’ve got to show just cause.’

The jury members had been sitting on the public benches so they had witnessed Bunny MacGregor’s show of grief, and my obsequiousness. Christ, I’d forgotten they were in, I shuddered at my fawning before the widow. First blood to Hector McVie. And whilst Kailash’s entrance was spectacular for a red carpet at the Golden Globes, I wished she’d come in like a widow about to commit suttee. Another point to Hector.

As the jury members filed forward to take their seats, a retired headmaster eagerly surveyed the scene.

‘Don’t bother,’ I said and the judge waved him off.

The seats in the jury box were filling up; I was pleased that they were, on average, young for a jury, youth being more forgiving than silver surfers.

‘Don’t bother,’ I said to the anorexic who was about to take her seat. I like a healthy jury; if you get too many going down sick then the jury is hung.

The clock was behind my back, so that it was in plain sight of the judicial eye. So was I as I stood up to make my third, and last, objection to a jury member. The Crown were keen to have jury member number twenty-three so that alone was enough to make me oppose it. Elaine Jones was an unmarried forty-year-old teacher.
Teachers are generally bad news anyway on a jury–they think they know everything and over-process things–but Ms Jones was looking resentfully across at Kailash, who although older than her, looked at least fifteen years younger. I wasn’t having Kailash go down because of another woman’s petty jealousy.