She didn’t say who their father was, Sarah noted, and Lloyd-Davies didn’t ask. But Sharon tossed her head and risked a swift glance at the jury, as though defying them to infer anything from the fact that the children’s father — or fathers — were no longer around. It had nothing to do with the case, after all. She was a mother, and she had been raped; that was all the jury needed to understand.
But there was more to it than that, as Sarah knew only too well. How could she not know, she who had been pregnant at fifteen? She knew why two young men in the jury gazed at Sharon with open admiration, while others looked away, avoiding her gaze. She even knew how that felt. She was certain that Sharon was promiscuous, and it was more than likely that she was, or had been, a prostitute — a game as old as the law. Once Sarah had flirted with that idea herself. Far less training, instant fees. I could have ended up like this, Sarah thought; proud of managing as a single mother, daring anyone to challenge me, defiant. And lonely as hell underneath.
So far, Sharon had looked everywhere in the court except at Sarah’s client, the man accused of raping her. It was as though he were a stucco pillar or a chair; her eyes slid past him without interest. But now Julian Lloyd-Davies mentioned him for the first time.
‘Could you tell the court where you first met the defendant, Gary Harker?’
‘Yes. It was at a club. The Gallery, in Castle Street. About two years ago’
‘And did a relationship then develop?’
‘Yes. He moved in with me.’
‘I see.’ Lloyd-Davies peered at her thoughtfully over his half-moon glasses. ‘By that you mean he lived together with you in your home, as though you were man and wife?’
‘He lived with me, yes. For about a year — something like that.’
‘I follow. And — to make things quite clear for the jury — during that year you slept in the same bed together, did you? And had regular sexual intercourse?’
‘Well he wasn’t just there for decoration, was he?’ Sharon seemed gratified by the ripple of amusement which greeted her answer. It was part of the age-old comedy of the court: the contrast between the fussy precision of the barrister’s language and the earthy facts the witnesses described. Part of the language barrier reflected a genuine need for precision in court; but another part was to do with the social gulf which separated the lives and experiences of people like Sharon and Gary from those of Julian Lloyd-Davies and my lord Stuart Gray. A chauffeur had delivered the judge to court; Lloyd-Davies, Sarah recalled wryly, had driven a black Jaguar with the numberplate LAW 2. She had been tempted to scratch it with her engagement ring as she walked past. That was the least that would have happened to a car like that in Seacroft; it would have lost its wheels and been standing on bricks by morning, if it was there at all.
‘And when did this relationship come to an end?’ Julian Lloyd-Davies continued.
‘Last April. He didn’t come home for three nights and I found out he’d been sleeping with another woman. So I slung his stuff out on the street. Cheating bugger.’
‘I see. And what happened when Gary came home and found it there?’
‘We had a fight. He broke my finger. But I changed the lock and he didn’t come back.’
‘Was this the first time he had been violent to you?’
Sharon shook her head. ‘You’re joking. He used to slap me round all the time. Specially when he was drunk. He’s a violent man, been in prison several times for it.’
Quickly, Sarah stood up, her eyes on the judge. ‘With the greatest respect, my Lord …’
‘Yes, yes, of course, Mrs Newby.’ Judge Gray knew as well as she did how vital it was for the defence to keep Gary’s criminal record from the jury. ‘Ms Gilbert, you must only answer the questions that are put to you. You mustn’t talk about anything else unless Mr Lloyd-Davies asks you. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, all right. But he asked me if he’s been violent and he has. And it’s true what I say, he has been in prison.’ For the first time, Sharon looked directly at Gary Harker in the dock. It was a look of recognition — a defiant challenge. I’ve got you now, you pig: see how you like this, it seemed to say. She held the gaze for a long second, then turned contemptuously away. If she could have spat, she would have done.
But her words were potentially devastating. Gary Harker’s criminal record ran into three pages, with several convictions for violence, some against women, for which he’d been sent to prison. According to the rules of evidence these facts, which might prejudice the jury against him, could not be mentioned in court. Now they had been. Sarah remained on her feet. It was within her power, she thought, to stop the trial now. But the judge’s long, bloodhound face concealed a quick mind. Instead of addressing Sarah he turned to the witness.
‘Ms Gilbert, answer this question yes or no, will you please. Has Gary Harker ever been sent to prison for any act of violence against you? Yes or no, remember — nothing else.’
‘Well, no, but he has …’
‘No, that’s your answer then,’ Judge Gray interrupted her smoothly. ‘Now one more question, yes or no. Has he ever been convicted of any act of violence against you?’
‘Well no, not against me, but …’
‘Thank you, Ms Gilbert, that’s all. You see, Gary Harker is not on trial for anything else he may have done in his life, he is simply on trial because he is accused of raping you. So you must only tell the jury about things that he has done to you personally, or to your children. That’s all this jury can consider, nothing else. Now Mr Lloyd-Davies asked if he’d been violent towards you and you answered that he used to slap you around when he was drunk. But it’s also true to say that he has never been convicted of any offence of violence against you. Isn’t that right?’
‘Yes,’ admitted Sharon sullenly. ‘Not yet, anyway.’
‘Very well, then.’ The judge looked at Sarah, who was still standing, and raised one lugubrious hairy eyebrow. ‘Does that satisfy you, Mrs Newby?’
‘I …’ Sarah hesitated, then capitulated. ‘For the moment, my Lord. I am most grateful.’ She sat down submissively, but she was boiling inside. Sharon had effectively told the jury that her client had convictions for violence. Should she have protested more, or asked for the trial to begin again with a fresh jury? Her hands shook as she wondered. The hesitation, and perhaps the capitulation too, were signs of her inexperience. She could still do it, she supposed; but even at this early stage it would cost time and money, which Judge Gray clearly wanted to avoid.
She had already lost one battle with the judge before the trial started, when she had tried to get the case dismissed because of the exceptional pre-trial publicity. A national tabloid had described Gary Harker as ‘the man arrested by police hunting York’s serial rapist’, and Sarah had argued that this article made it impossible for any jury in the York area to give Gary a fair trial. The judge had listened courteously but ruled against her, specifying only that jurors who admitted reading the offending newspaper article could be excluded.
Now he had allowed the jurors to hear of her client’s criminal past. What should she do? Dare she — a very junior barrister — challenge a high court judge twice in one morning? She might turn him against her for the rest of the trial. Would that help her or destroy her case?
She turned it over furiously in her mind. If the judge had ruled unfairly there would be grounds for appeal. On the other hand, she might gain a possible benefit. If the judge allowed the prosecution to attack Gary’s character by mentioning his criminal past in court, then perhaps she could attack Sharon’s character too; and she was no angel either. Sarah sat very still, thinking hard. What would a more experienced barrister do? Was that a hint of smugness on the judge’s face? Two up to him for the moment — pompous sod.