Читать книгу Babyface - Elizabeth Woodcraft - Страница 10

SIXThursday – Inquiry

The rain drummed on the plate-glass window in relentless waves. Through the fluorescent lights the air was grey while Shelly Dean gave her evidence. She was wearing a neat black jacket and a loose white Tricel blouse. Her round face was flushed with concentration.

We had decided at the conference that Shelly would be the first witness. She was confident, spoke clearly and made good points. Like many of the other clients, she had had a difficult life – it was her complaints to the police about abuse by her father which had led to her reception into care, only for her to be abused at the children’s home. Shelly was determined that the system would give answers for what had happened to her in her childhood. She had high hopes for the inquiry.

The lawyers had finished their opening submissions in the morning. Each advocate had stressed how his or her clients wanted to assist the panel in every way, to ensure such things never happened again. I had said it myself. Before Shelly went into the witness box, as my clients milled around in the lobby at the end of the lunch break, tense and garrulous, she had approached me, holding a cigarette in a trembling hand and asked me again what would happen. ‘We’re all fighting on the same side,’ I assured her. ‘They won’t have a go at you. You’re assisting the inquiry. It’ll be fine.’

‘Yeah, but what about my dad?’ she said. Charges had been brought against her father, but something had happened, the police had mixed up the dates of the court hearings and the case had been dismissed for lack of the chief prosecution witness.

‘No one can attack you for that.’ I said. ‘And if they do I shall want to know the reason why.’

She smiled at me, reassured, and as we all filed back into the room, she instructed the group where to sit to ensure they saw her best side when she took the stand.

The Chair had said he didn’t want witnesses giving evidence in chief, because they had said everything in their statements, and we would go straight to cross-examination. After Shelly had settled herself on the upright green leather chair behind the small, square table which was the witness box, she told me her name and address and I had asked her briefly about the action group and the letters she had written in her role as secretary.

Now she was answering Frodsham’s questions about her time at Haslam Hall. She had mentioned Mr Wyatt, his client, by name. Frodsham feigned outrage. He did it very well, his face turned puce. ‘Are you saying that my client – the principal – was in the room?’

‘Not unless he was hiding in the cupboard. Are you listening to what I’m saying? He were never there in the punishment room, not when I was. But when I told Mike and Tim, our so-called carers, that I was going to tell Mr Wyatt, they said he wouldn’t be very interested. But I wouldn’t have told Mr Wyatt anyway. I were only nine.’

‘The description you give implies that my client was in some way negligent.’

‘I don’t know what that means. They just said if I wanted to tell him, I’d have to go and find him down at the Bull Ring, and then they laughed as if it was a good joke.’ Mr Wyatt sat beside Frodsham, pale and thin, gazing impassively at Shelly.

‘Your statement to the police mentions nothing of this,’ Frodsham went on.

‘They didn’t ask me about it. My statement to the inquiry does though.’

‘That was made almost a year later.’

‘That’s not my fault.’

He smiled a thin-lipped smile. ‘Perhaps you have reported the conversation wrongly.’

‘No.’

‘Perhaps you have not properly remembered what was said.’

‘I told you, no. That’s what they said.’

‘It’s not true is it?’

‘It is.’

‘No, it’s not.’

‘Are you calling me a liar now?’ Shelly’s cheeks were flushed. She turned towards me hopelessly.

I rose to my feet. ‘My client is giving, or attempting to give, a description of a conversation that took place in the absence of Mr Frodsham’s client. The panel will remember that it was Mrs Dean’s evidence which began the process which led to the arrest of staff members who had abused their position of power over vulnerable young people. Mr Frodsham is not representing those men. Mr Wyatt was never charged with any offence. The tone of the cross-examination is oppressive and, more than that, it’s completely unnecessary.’

‘What are you asking me to do?’ drawled Henry Curston.

I wanted to say ‘Tell this pompous bastard to shut up and sit down,’ but I thought that line of argument might not go down too well. ‘My client is not attempting to prove, or disprove anything in this case. She is assisting the inquiry. Courtesy, and a more reasonable approach to cross-examination, might prevent an already distressing experience for her becoming more so.’

‘So what are you asking me to do?’

‘Perhaps you could ask Mr Frodsham to stop treating my client as if she had done something wrong. She is no more nor less than someone who as a child was systematically abused over a two-year period.’

‘Giving evidence, Miss Richmond?’ he asked with a ghost of a smile.

‘You already have her written statement,’ I said. ‘I am saying nothing that is not written there.’

‘Robust cross-examination is one of the pillars upon which our legal system is built,’ Curston said complacently, pressing the tips of the fingers of both hands together. ‘How else is Mr Frodsham to deal with the issues, except through cross-examination?’

‘In the Family Division we have a rather different approach,’ I said. Curston was a criminal practitioner. ‘Where matters of children are under discussion we tend towards the inquisitorial approach,’ I went on, ‘and politeness and respect are always held in high esteem. And let us not forget that those care workers, of whom Mike and Tim were only two, pleaded guilty to some twenty-nine charges.’ I took a deep breath. I was furious.

Curston said nothing.

I wanted to sit down. ‘So perhaps the simplest thing, sir, is for you to rule, firstly on whether my objection to Mr Frodsham’s style of cross-examination is valid and secondly, if you are with me, to rule that Mr Frodsham should frame his questions in a less combative way.’ I was telling him what to do.

‘I am against you, Miss Richmond,’ Curston said. ‘But, Mr Frodsham, it never does to forget the need for chivalry.’

‘I’m not asking for chivalry!’ I was almost shouting. ‘My client wants someone, possibly you sir, to provide answers to the important questions, like how it happened and what can be done to ensure that lessons are learned. Perhaps Mr Frodsham’s client doesn’t want that. That is a matter for him. But what my client doesn’t want is chivalry, she can open doors for herself.’

Oh God, oh God.

A flush moved across Curston’s face. If he had thought twice he probably wouldn’t have used the word. But then, no one was thinking twice.

‘Miss Richmond, I say to you – and to all the representatives if that is at all necessary – you are not in front of a jury. I will not tolerate this kind of behaviour at the inquiry. Miss Richmond, I will not warn you again.’

As I sat down Adam was already breathing congratulations in my ear. ‘That was great!’ he said. He really was young.

Frodsham had one more question for Shelly. ‘And when you left the home you became a prostitute?’

The colour drained from her face.

I was on my feet again. ‘That is not relevant, except perhaps as an example of the damage done by the abuse my client suffered. I assume Mr Frodsham asked that question on instructions from his client, Mr Wyatt. I simply say again, it’s not relevant.’

Henry Curston shuffled his papers. ‘If you hadn’t been so quick off the mark, Miss Richmond, I was about to say the same thing myself.’

It was the afternoon tea break and Adam and I left the inquiry room. Catherine Delahaye approached us with a sheaf of paper. She gave me a sheet and Adam a sheet. It was a timetable for the inquiry. It looked rather similar to mine, except she had set out the days the witnesses would be attending and her time estimate was longer. At this rate I would be here till Christmas.

‘By the way,’ she said, looking across the lobby, ‘Mr Frodsham would like to know which of your clients will be giving evidence.’

‘I bet he would.’

She hesitated, but when I said no more she moved on to speak to the other advocates.

The clients had gathered in a loose group protecting Shelly. She was smoking. I moved towards her purposefully, trying to convey a sense of achievement I did not feel. Shelly hadn’t asked, or even expected, to be treated so badly. I had to reassure her, and the others who were due to give evidence, that going through a horrible time in the witness box had served some purpose. ‘You were good,’ I said to her. ‘You were clearly telling it exactly like it happened.’ I noticed Wyatt hovering on the edge of the group, with a caring smile fixed to his lips. ‘Get rid of him,’ I said to Adam, from the corner of my mouth.

Adam ushered Wyatt away. I went on, ‘For some reason you put the wind up Frodsham. I think we’re making some good points.’

‘Yeah, that last one were a killer.’

‘That was irrelevant. You were the first witness, Frodsham was just trying impress his little personality on the proceedings, to worry you. It reflected worse on him.’

‘I probably had him too,’ she said. She took a long drag on her cigarette. ‘He probably wants his fifteen quid back.’

Frodsham’s plan, if that’s what it was, had worked. Leanne Scott and Janine Telford who were to give their evidence after the break, looked grey and anxious. I asked Adam to make sure everyone had a biscuit so we would all have the necessary blood sugar levels for the next session and I left the room, saying I had to make a phonecall.

Earlier in the morning, wandering round the building, I had found a set of telephone kiosks in the basement that no one seemed to use. I stood in the phone booth now, staring at the wall. It was important not to get things out of perspective, I told myself. Being an advocate was my job, getting shouted at was my job. But protecting the clients was also my job and I hadn’t done that very well just now. I simply hadn’t seen it coming. But it wasn’t my fault, I told myself sensibly, Frodsham wasn’t playing by the rules. What were the rules? Perhaps I’d made up my own rules and everyone else was working to a completely different set. No, Frodsham was out of order. I was sure of it.

After the break Leanne and Janine told their stories. They too had been regularly ‘punished’ for minor misdemeanours at the home. The advocate to the inquiry asked them clinical questions about the systematic nature of the abuse, the days of the week, the time of day. The women held their heads high, occasionally looking over at me, and I tried to offer support without moving a muscle of my face. Wyatt’s name was not mentioned and Frodsham’s cross-examination was desultory.

We were adjourned until ten thirty on Monday, because Henry Curston had a case in the Court of Appeal. I could see my youth disappearing while I staggered through this inquiry in Birmingham.

Leanne and Janine mingled with the others in the foyer, pleased not to have been attacked in the witness chair, but a little disappointed they hadn’t had the chance to shout at Frodsham. Perhaps I was wrong about Frodsham. The three women who had given evidence walked towards the stairs, sharing their feelings. After they had gone a few steps, I could hear them laughing.

I went to my phone booths in the basement and rang chambers. ‘So you’ve started then?’ Gavin said.

‘Yes, but we’re not sitting tomorrow. In fact, I think we’re unlikely to go straight through. From the timetable, it looks as if we’re going to be jumping about with days here and there, to fit in with everybody’s other commitments.’

‘You’d better fax the timetable to me,’ Gavin said, ‘or bring it into chambers.’

‘Only if you promise not to book anything else in for me.’

‘OK,’ he said. ‘If you’re sure.’

‘Have I got any messages?’ I asked.

‘I’ll hand you to Jenna.’

‘Hello.’ Jenna’s pleasant voice was happy and enthusiastic. She had just been promoted to junior junior clerk. ‘You’ve got one message. Oh, it’s from Iotha.’ She was surprised that it was from another member of chambers. ‘Can you ring her? I don’t know what that’s about.’

‘Is there anything in my pigeon-hole?’ I asked. ‘Like a cheque?’

She went away to look and I passed a few hopeful seconds dreaming of what I would do if she found a massive cheque there. Or even a small cheque. I could buy a new suit for work. I could pay my mortgage.

‘No cheques, I’m afraid, but you have got a memo, well, it’s an invitation really, well it’s a memo.’

‘What is it?’ I said, ‘I’m on a payphone.’ I put money into the box.

‘This is from Iotha, too.’ Iotha was a young practitioner who did crime and family, and who had taken over three cases of mine which were coming to court during my time out of town. ‘This is probably what her telephone message was about. She’s having a garden party,’ Jenna said.

‘Oh, that’s nice,’ I said. ‘But I thought her garden was in a terrible state.’

‘That’s the point. It says, “Gardening at three o’clock, dinner provided at seven. RSVP.” ’

‘Oh God,’ I said. ‘When is it?’

‘Sunday.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘Can’t you make it?’

‘I’m afraid I can,’ I said. ‘Tell her I’ll be there.’ I hate almost all types of gardening, I have nothing in common with most of my colleagues in chambers, and the time I had to spend at my lovely flat over the next few weeks was going to be severely limited. But it’s important to support young members of chambers, and chambers activities are necessary anyway, to raise morale. And we needed morale boosting in chambers, every one was feeling anxious about how little work there was around, about Legal Aid rates, and about the three civil practitioners who had left chambers in the past few months. I’d have to go.

It was nearly nine o’clock when I got back to Stoke Newington. I drove through Dalston and up Kingsland High Road, past the Turkish shops with their lights coming on in the dusk, lighting up bright oranges and exotic vegetables. The florists opposite Amhurst Road welcomed me home with an enormous display of red and white flowers in pots outside the shop.

I picked up my post, left by one of my upstairs neighbours in a neat pile outside my front door. It didn’t look even remotely interesting. There was a catalogue, a red bill and a couple of local newspapers. And a postcard which made me catch my breath. It was a picture of Edinburgh castle at night. I knew who it was from before I turned it over.

I unlocked my front door and walked into the living room before I read it. The message was brief and heartbreaking, written in the scrawl of all her postcards.

The gig last night was fantastic. Standing room only. Three encores. I still can’t believe it. Love Margo x

Heartbreaking for me.

Margo was the woman I had had a short, passionate affair with the year before, when I’d had my run-in with the police. Margo had definite priorities and I was very low down on the list, after her children and her career. But I had been pleased when she was booked to do some backing vocals at Ronnie Scott’s through a friend of a friend of mine, and then some supporting work at the Jazz Café, and when I had heard there was talk of a tour with Jools Holland I was delighted. And now I was getting postcards from her exciting new life.

I threw myself onto the sofa and gazed at the ceiling. She had sung ‘Call me,’ and I had, but it was a party line and someone else was talking.

I shook my head, this wouldn’t do, it was too late, it was over. My eye was caught by the flashing red light of my answerphone. I pressed the button. There were two messages. The first was Gavin saying he assumed I would finish all my outstanding paperwork before I started the inquiry, since that was what he had assured my solicitor only minutes after I had been speaking to him. ‘Of course,’ I told the machine, trying to remember what he was talking about. The other message was from my best friend Lena asking me to ring her, because she had great news.

‘Guess what, I’ve joined a gym,’ she announced as soon as I’d said hello.

‘Whatever for?’

‘Fitness, toned limbs, eternal youth. Plus they’ve got a Bar that sells liquid grass, not the herbal kind, and I don’t think I could bear to drink it in public.’

‘I don’t think I could bear to drink it anywhere,’ I said. ‘It’s unnatural.’

‘So, the thing is,’ she said, ignoring me, ‘I can take a guest in free and I wondered if you wanted to come on Saturday morning.’

‘The short answer to that of course is no.’

‘That’s what Nicky said. And Sophie.’

‘So I’m not even your first choice.’

‘You were number one on my non-lovers list,’ she said.

‘It was very nice of you to ask. I tell you what, how about you go to your class, and then we meet for breakfast after?’

‘All right,’ she said reluctantly.

‘What are you doing tonight?’

‘Going to see A Bout de Souffle. It’s on in Shaftesbury Avenue.’

‘And would that be with Sophie or Nicky?’

We talked about Lena’s complicated love life for a while and then she had to go.

So no pleasant evening with Lena, cruising in Stoke Newington Church Street, then. There was some Ryvita in the fridge and there was a scraping of Marmite left in the jar. I prepared a feast of culinary delights and opened a half-bottle of Pouilly Fumé.

Ten minutes later, remembering my list of things to do, I knelt down to my line of albums and pulled out Bad Company. Side two, track one. The mournful piano notes filled the room, followed by the wailing voice of the lead singer. My dad used to play it in his workshop. I think he liked the image, always on the run. For Danny, of course, it wasn’t just an image. And anyway he kept getting caught.

Then I flipped the disc and played ‘Can’t Get Enough of Your Love’, clicking my fingers round the living room. I was having a good time playing seventies rock. Oh dear, perhaps I was coming down with something.