Читать книгу Babyface - Elizabeth Woodcraft - Страница 7

THREEWednesday Morning – Crown Court

But it wasn’t just the judge, it was Danny too. Because of course, they brought him.

I went to the cells, just in case, and asked nonchalantly whether they had him.

‘Oh yes, madam.’ The jailer had a cup of tea and a copy of the Sun open on the desk in front of him. I gave him my name. ‘Just you is it?’ he asked in the false anxious tone they use to wind-up women barristers. ‘You want to go in on your own?’

Gavin had assured me that, whatever impression the papers might give, the client was a pussycat. I wasn’t sure what that meant. Personally I won’t have a cat in the house.

‘If you would make your way to room number three, madam,’ the jailer said, reluctantly rising to press the intercom to ask for Danny Richards to be brought through. I walked down the corridor, under fluorescent lights, to the small concrete room with a table and three tubular chairs.

I laid my wig and a packet of Benson & Hedges on the table.

The interview began badly. ‘Where’s my brief?’ he said shortly as he barged into the room. He was big, stocky, with a face that would have been pleasant if it wasn’t for the very short hairstyle. He was wearing a tight, short-sleeved, camouflage green T-shirt, over bulging biceps and baggy combat trousers. He was on remand, he was still considered innocent, so he could wear what he liked. Simon would doubtless advise him to get a different outfit for the trial.

He slumped into the other chair in the room. ‘Where’s my brief?’ His hands curled into fists on the table.

‘If you mean Simon Allison,’ I said, ‘he’s in hospital having a pin put in his ankle.’ I made a mental note to tell Simon that. ‘On the other hand, this morning and this morning only,’ I inclined my head towards my wig, ‘I’m your brief. My name is Frankie Richmond.’ I held out my hand. He looked at it reluctantly. Then decided not to shake it.

I smoothed open my blue counsel’s notebook.

‘Mr Richards, the purpose of this morning’s hearing is to make the final preparations for the trial.’

He looked at me with a bored expression, picking up the pack of cigarettes and removing the cellophane.

‘It’s pleas and directions. You pleaded not guilty on …’ I rifled through my ten pages, knowing the date on which Danny had entered his plea was one of the many things they did not contain.

‘I’m thinking of changing that. My plea. I’m thinking of going guilty.’

‘Oh no you’re not.’

‘I can do what I like, I’m paying your fees.’

‘No,’ I said, ‘I think someone else is paying my fees. But perhaps your name isn’t Richards at all, perhaps it’s Aid, or can I call you Legal?’

‘That’s Mr Aid to you.’

‘Of course,’ I said.

‘Don’t get smart,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a right to representation, same as that bloke Saunders did. And the Maxwell brothers.’

‘Of course you have, probably more,’ I said. ‘But we’re getting off the point. You are not going to change your plea. Your lawyers having been working very hard for…’ I rustled my papers, ‘a long time, and they are…’ I coughed, ‘confident of victory.’

He nodded. ‘But I’m going to be convicted.’ He took out a cigarette and I handed him a box of matches. As he struck the match he said, ‘Where is my barrister really?’

‘Simon’s at hospital. There’s something wrong with his ankle. He’ll be fine for the trial, but he particularly wanted me to do this hearing for you this morning.’

‘Why?’

‘That’s a question I have been asking myself since the moment my clerk told me about today, Mr Richards,’ I said. ‘I think in another life I must have done something really terrible to him.’

His face cracked into a smile. ‘I like you,’ he said.

Oh God.

I looked at my watch.

‘We’ve got twenty minutes before Norman has us in,’ he said, knowledgeably. ‘Look, they’ve stitched me up and they’ve done a good job. You’ve read the papers. You can see, can’t you?’

I shook my head vaguely.

‘It’s funny really. I’ve known him for years. Never liked him – a self-important twat. I expect your old dad always told you never to trust a secondhand car dealer. Well, Terry Fleming is the reason why. But there’s loads more people I would rather have taken a pop at. But he disappears and they come and arrest me. And what have they got?’

‘A “no-comment” interview.’ I knew that much.

‘Yeah, but they’ve got the other stuff. What I said in the car. I admit I did say one or two things behind my hand, being ironic. And that is how they think they’ve got me admitting to this murder. And what with the forensics.’ He stopped. ‘Let’s just say, I want to change my plea. I’ve been in front of Norman before, he doesn’t like me, I know how this is going to go.’

‘But the conversation in the car…’ I hesitated. I was on difficult ground here, I wasn’t entirely clear what he’d said, what he’d said he’d said or what they said he’d said. ‘Simon can argue that’s inadmissable.’

‘He could, but it’ll go in. Then somehow my previous convictions will go in, probably thanks to my codefendant, Mr Catcher, who as you know is charged with conspiracy, but who I would no more conspire with than get in a spat with.’

I made a surreptitious note. A co-defendant was good. If he was first on the indictment, the charge sheet, I might not have to say a word during the hearing this morning.

‘So my previous goes in and the jury hears about my climb up the ladder of physical violence – common assault, ABH, GBH, and attempted murder. The pross says something like, “And now the charge is murder. In criminal terms, members of the jury, he has come of age.” ’ He inhaled deeply and hunched forward in his chair. It was a good imitation of a pompous prosecution barrister. ‘Then what chance have I got? Down I go and Freddy Hanging’s-too-good-for-them Norman recommends thirty years for a “heartless gangland execution”. I might as well go guilty now and he knocks some time off in consideration.’

Part of me knew he had a point. But another part of me knew I was not prepared for a plea in mitigation. A shard of desperation told me there was a chance he would win if he fought the case. And a sense of justice told me he should fight it, if he hadn’t done it.

‘But you might win,’ I said.

He snorted and sat back in his chair with a grin on his face, leaving me with a small internal war going on. I didn’t know what else to say. I certainly couldn’t say ‘Actually, I’m not really meant to be here, in fact I’m not even a criminal barrister any more, and I am starting a case with some uppity clients at two thirty, a case which is going to open the path to heaven and possibly a fleet of fancy cars for me, and if I do your plea they’ll sack me.’ He was lighting a cigarette from the embers of his first one. The room was cold and full of misty smoke, like being on Dartmoor. I could almost hear small ponies neighing and pawing the ground.

I said, ‘We’re not ready for a plea today. I’d want to spend a long time with you to prepare your mitigation, and we don’t have time for that now. Also,’ here we go, ‘I’ll be straight with you. I have to be somewhere else this afternoon.’

‘What did they send you for if you can’t do it?’

‘Because “it” is listed as a thirty minute PDH.’

‘Which stands for pleas and directions. And that’s what I want. I want to put in a plea, a guilty plea and get a direction that the whole thing is over and done with today. You just want me to stay not guilty because you want to get away. Where are you going?’

‘I have a case. I’m representing…’ I paused. Mentally I was checking my professional position. This was not breaching confidentiality. ‘I’m representing some people at an inquiry.’

‘Oh yeah?’ He was interested. ‘Who you representing?’

‘The victims. Look, I do want to get away, but it’s not going to make any difference to your sentence if you plead guilty today or next week,’ I said. ‘But for God’s sake, you’ve got so little to lose by fighting it. Plead guilty, you get life. Plead not guilty and lose, you get life. And I think there are investigations to be made – I don’t know if they’ve been done – that could help your case.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like, I don’t know, checking local newspaper reports for the month Fleming disappeared, retracing his last known steps, talking to his mum.’

‘All right, you can stop worrying.’ He rolled his cigarette between his fingers. ‘Write this down. “This morning, I will not ask to change my plea.” ’ I scribbled on my faxed back sheet. He held out his hand for the pen and signed his initials. ‘You’re a good little barrister, aren’t you? I’d like to see you cross-examining someone.’

‘Yes, I’m a real Rottweiler,’ I said.

‘No, I’d say you were more of a – what are they called?’

‘A Borzoi?’ I said, imagining something elegant and sophisticated.

‘No, no, I was thinking more like a Jack Russell.’