Lover in Law (35 page)

Cameron looks from me to Margaret, back and forth, a couple of times, wondering who to believe. He’s dazed and shell-shocked from this whole, unexpected onslaught. He’d have come to court today without a real clue why he’d been summoned, but he sure as hell wouldn’t have been expecting this. Suddenly though, from out the blue, he seems to regain his composure, to rise a couple of inches in his seat. His gaze meets mine. His eyes hold a look of defiance.

“I’ll answer the question,” says Cameron. “You want answers?”

His voice is steady and confident and controlled. He’s regained his composure.

“I think I’m entitled to them,” I say.

I had been pacing, but I stop, a couple of yards away from the witness box, face him head on.

“You want answers?” he whispers.

He speaks so quietly I take a step closer to the stand.

“I want the truth,” I say.

It all feels quite tense, quite dramatic. There’s a natural hush. You could hear a pin drop. Nobody, it seems, is even taking the trouble to breathe.

“I’ll give you the truth,” he says.

He takes a moment to scan the courtroom, looking hard first at the judge, then at Scott Richardson, before panning up and down the two rows of jury members. He rests back in his chair, taking on board all the friends and family members sat here, the public up in the spectators’ gallery.

  “The truth is,” he continues, “that yes I hated Scott Richardson at school and no, nothing’s changed. He was the golden boy. The teachers loved him. Everyone wanted to be his friend, and near enough the whole of the local girls’ school fancied him. All I wanted was to be acknowledged.” Cameron’s voice starts to crack. His eyes turn distant and misty. “All I wanted was a bit of his time,” he continues. “All I wanted was to be noticed. I didn’t have many friends. I thought he was different. I thought I’d seen a gentle, more compassionate side to Scott, that maybe he could help me. I remember trying to sit next to him in the dining room. There was a space free, so I went up, asked if it was taken. He near enough ignored me, carried on joking with his friends, asking if they should let someone with spunk on their bum sit with them. I turned to look at the back of my trousers. They were covered in white chalk. I’ve no idea how they got like that. Anyway, I must have forgotten I was carrying a tray. I removed a hand to brush off the offending stain, but the tray fell and the plates and glass crashed and smashed to the floor. Everyone looked at me, laughing, pointing. I was nicknamed ‘spunky’ for all the wrong reasons from that moment on. It stuck. I was called that for the next eight years. I’m still haunted by that day, I still have nightmares about it and that man,” he points at Scott, “probably has no recollection whatsoever. But now,” he points at Scott again and again and again, “now, now, NOW you won’t forget me in a hurry. Maybe now we can switch roles. Maybe now I can become your nightmare instead.”

Cameron’s eyes start to spill over like the Niagara Falls. I’m in a halfway house myself, moved emotionally by his breakdown, but also, to be honest, fighting to gulp down involuntary giggles, my mouth puffed up with air, giving the impression I’m sucking on ten gob stoppers. Which makes me feel mean. His story was sad. He is pathetic. It wasn’t supposed to be funny. In any event, I’m distracted at this point because Margaret, Counsel for the Prosecution, jumps up from her seat and calls for the judge to dismiss the case. Which means that whether Cameron did or didn’t want to set my client up is immaterial. Anthony and I have won.

***

Scott and I are in the courtroom alone and at long last his sole presence doesn’t intimidate in the slightest. The mood is far too celebratory. One by one we’ve watched everyone leave. Mr. Justice Smiley had admitted the case had collapsed. Cameron had stepped down from the stand, head bowed, had a brief, apologetic exchange with his legal team. I’d wondered how this small, pathetic man had managed to intimidate me so powerfully. How the words of his anonymous letter, because it must have been him that sent it, had played so effectively on my self-doubt and suspicions of Scott being involved in the murder of not only Rupert Simons, but William Nichols too. Anthony, after shaking Scott’s hand, had gone to have a word with counsel for the Prosecution. It’s normal, after a case, for opposing teams to shake hands, move on. There are no grudges from the losing side, or our job would be unbearable. The jury, the congregation, the public have all slowly filed out, as have the guards.

Scott clasps both my hands as if he’s praying to me. I’m faced with a man who’s spent months scaring the living daylights out of me, but who now comes across as Mr. Innocent. 

“Thank you, thank you, so, so much,” he says, punctuating his thanks by shaking our four hands furiously. The second he realized he was a free man, he’d run to Anthony and I, put his arms round us both, told us we were stars of the highest order, he could never repay us. I blushed in his praise, proud of the success. It could so easily have gone the other way.

“Oh, to hell with it,” he says. He pulls me to standing with the force of his arm and hugs me, or at least tries to. My bump is fairly prohibitive in terms of getting too close, but our heads meet, cheeks brushing close enough for me to feel the slight stubble on his waxy skin, close enough to get an overpowering whiff of Fahrenheit.

“You know,” he says, taking a step back, arms outstretched, now holding onto both my hands separately, “I’m so pleased you passed my test. It’s been such fun having you for counsel.”

At least someone enjoyed the experience.

 “Test?” I ask, desperate to release my hands, but unable to free them from his vice-like grip.

“Yes,” he says. “Do you remember receiving an anonymous letter saying I killed William Nichols?”

 Pause.

“Yes,” I inflect slowly, unsure where he’s going with this. How on earth does HE know about that letter?

“I sent it to you.”

“Right,” I say, slightly dumbfounded. I can’t see why he’d do something like that.

“I felt,” he continues, “if you could carry on representing me, believing in me, even after doubts had been put into your head, that you’d win this case for me.”

“Right,” I repeat. I’m shocked by his honesty and shocked that someone would go to such lengths to ensure they’d hired the right representation. Were it not for Anthony, I’d probably have failed the test, scored nil points. 

“And now I’m going to tell you something, something I haven’t told anyone for a very long time.”

His look is so penetrating that I’m once more unsettled. I don’t want to hear any secrets. The case is now closed. 

“When I was in my second year at college,” he continues, “I did a very stupid thing. There was this aristocratic creep called Hugo who I couldn’t stand. He was such a show-off, always driving around in this flashy, sporty MG, screeching off to impress the girls. Well, I reckoned someone needed to teach him a lesson, so one day I took a hunting knife to a couple of his tyres. It was meant to be a bit of fun, no serious harm intended, but when he got into the car in his customary manner, put his foot to the floor, he lost control and bashed into a wall at high speed, breaking his arm and collar-bone. A so-called friend grassed on me and I was taken to the local police station, fingerprinted and arrested. Anyway, the reason I’m telling you this story is that I had a lovely tutor at the time called Robert Neville who wrote a fantastic letter to the cops. He said I was an excellent student, was a first-time offender and a black mark against my name could really ruin a glowing future. He thought I was destined for greatness and strongly recommended that in this instance, they showed leniency, which they did. I got off with a caution in the end. I’ve never forgotten Robert Neville, and what he did for me. And now you, Ali, you’ve just helped history repeat itself. You shall forever be in my thoughts.”

With that he pulls a smile so broad, so bleached, so malevolent, it makes me flinch. I take a step back, release my hands from his with a jerk more forceful than a thousand volt electric shock. I find it hard to say anything in response, to tell him it’s a pleasure, anytime, it’s been great working with him. In fact, I can’t get away quickly enough. The skin on my neck breaks out in red patches and welts and this time Scott Richardson isn’t even breathing on it. 

Chapter 39

We’re gathered in front of the Old Bailey. Scott’s ushered forward, away from Sahara. Sahara addresses me, showing interest for the first time. “When’s it due?” she asks in a hushed voice. The bevy of Reporters with their pads and mikes jostle for position, shoving their cameramen to the front line. “Just under five weeks,” I reply, aware, as I do, of the implications. In just under five weeks, I may well know who the father of my unborn child is. I’m pleased the case is over, but now that it is I’ll be forced to concentrate on the wedding and the bump, the import of which I’ve been trying to evade. A murmur of disapproval ripples across the crowd, as some of the press plays rough with their elbows, fighting for the best pitch. “I’m pleased this is all over,” she whispers again. “Now I can now get back to being a Mother.” I smile with a polite nod, wondering if she too had used the court case to avoid reality. The high-pitch excitement suddenly fades to zero as someone yells a prolonged ‘shush’. Scott positions himself, tall, proud and composed.

“Justice has been done,” he starts. Assembled stills photographers click simultaneously, setting off a firework display of flashes. He waits for them to finish, a professional to the core, then carries on. “These last few months have been unbelievably difficult.” He speaks slowly, deliberately, pointedly. “I’ve always proclaimed my innocence and today I got the backing of the legal system.” He pauses again, panning his eyes around the posse. “I’d like to thank my friends and family and the hundreds of well-wishers that have been behind me all the way. I couldn’t have done it without you. I’d like to thank my legal team, Ali Kirk and Anthony de Klerk.” He turns to us, punches his fist in the air. I feel nauseous, managing only the weakest of smiles in acknowledgment as the nation’s media look on. I’ve been cogitating on what he said, about Robert Neville, the tutor who got him off last time, and me now being in the same category. He didn’t literally hold up his hands and say ‘I did it’. It’s probably not what he meant at all, just my misinterpretation. What he probably meant was Robert Neville used his skill and expertise to the maximum and so did I. Nevertheless I feel disquieted. As a lawyer for the defence, I know that I’m just doing my job, that I must be my client’s mouthpiece, that if he or she says they are innocent then I must believe them. Sure, sometimes you wonder if your client is lying, but you brush it aside. Guilty people walk free every day. That’s the way our system’s set up. If you have any REASONABLE doubt about the defendant’s guilt, you must acquit. Maxwell’s always said that for a hundred ‘not guilty’ verdicts, one innocent person is convicted and that’s the one to cause sleepless nights, seeing the man who didn’t do it getting banged up. I’ll never know for sure if Scott Richardson really did murder Rupert Simons, but nonetheless, his acquittal swallows with the ease of a lodged fish bone. I’ve worked far too hard to get this scumbag off and I’m now questioning what I’ve done. I try to push it to the back of my mind, to reap some pleasure from the victory, but the bone isn’t shifting. “And last but not least,” Scott finishes, “I’d like to thank the television network who’ve supported me one hundred per cent. Look whose talking now!”

The crowd cheers and claps. It would have sold more papers, been more exciting for them had he gone down, but the news hounds are acting with grace and decorum nonetheless, giving Scott Richardson the congratulations he deserves. Anthony puts an arm on my lower back and his mouth to my ear, shouting to be heard above the heckling and applause. He congratulates me again, tells me this is my moment, not Scott’s, despite how it looks. Anthony hasn’t got to know Scott like I have though. All this moment does is confirm that I can’t do anything right.   

***

“It has to be champagne,” I say.

Anthony heads off to the bar. For once I don’t feel guilty about sharing a drink with him. We’re toasting my maternity leave and the end of the trial. Baby or no baby, a few sips of bubbles can’t hurt. We could have gone anywhere, once it was decided that we would. The locale is packed with boozers of all shapes and sizes, from spit and sawdust centuries’ old pubs to classy haunts that have cheese menus alongside their wine lists. I chose, however, because it was left up to me, to go back to Middle Temple. When push comes to shove, there is no better place. Our Inn of Court has its very own bar which, on a nice day, spills out onto the most fabulous gardens overlooking the river. It being the end of November means the al fresco option is by the by, but the view out the window more than makes up for it, as does the raging log fire. Here it feels you’ve tripped back in time, to a homely set-up. Not a middle-class pad. More a country manor owned by a Lord or a Lady or by someone else with a title.  Here I feel nostalgic. About everything that’s ever been, about everything that’s yet to come. That’s probably why I chose it. It’s not just the early onset of post-trial blues. It’s that I’m scared of the free time looming.  

 Anthony comes back. He sets a bottle and two flutes down on our small wooden table, takes a seat, fills up the glasses, then hands one over and holds his aloft.

“Here’s to you,” he says.

We clink.

“And here’s to you,” I say.