‘Do I take it that you were not satisfied with my specific instructions to the witness and jury in both instances?’
Sarah frowned. ‘I am most grateful to your lordship, of course, but …’
‘But you feel I could have done better?’
‘Not exactly, my lord, no.’ Sarah was determined not to be patronised. ‘I make no criticism of your lordship’s interventions but my submission is that the damage has been done and cannot be undone.’
‘And so?’
‘For my client to receive a fair hearing there should be a new trial and a new jury, my lord. Preferably not in York where there’s been so much publicity about this Hooded Knifeman.’
So there, she thought. I’ve said it. Now what?
The judge inclined his head to the man in the silk gown beside her. ‘Julian?’
Lloyd-Davies smiled — that conspiratorial, collegiate smile that Sarah knew and loathed so well. Julian indeed!
‘It seems to me that both incidents were dealt with admirably by your lordship.’ He favoured Sarah with an avuncular glance. ‘I have the greatest respect for my learned friend’s zeal to defend her client, but I believe there have been several directives from the Lord Chancellor’s Office about the cost to public funds of such retrials, have there not? The CPS would strongly oppose such a ruling on the grounds of cost alone.’
‘I am aware of the importance of cost, my lord,’ Sarah replied determinedly. ‘But public funds exist to provide justice, and I repeat that my client cannot now receive a fair trial from a jury whose minds have been unfairly prejudiced by this witness. Twice in one afternoon!’ she added, almost as a personal accusation.
Judge Gray raised a hand wearily to stop her. ‘Yes, yes, I understand your point fully, Mrs Newby, and it does you credit. I am also fully aware of the purpose of public funds.’ He paused for a moment, rubbing his thumb along his jaw and staring intently at an area just below her chin. Did her collar have a stain on it, she wondered anxiously? But no, of course not — it was merely another technique for humiliating people, putting them in their place. The judge cleared his throat and resumed.
‘I have already directed the jury to ignore both remarks and will repeat those instructions in my summing up. In my opinion that will suffice to ensure your client the fair trial which he undoubtedly deserves.’
The words appeared impeccable but the sarcastic final phrase was a deliberate reference to the fact that everyone in court — except, she hoped, the jury — regarded Gary Harker as an unpleasant thug who was almost certainly guilty and belonged in prison. Not that the judge had actually said that, of course, but …
‘In that case, my lord, I hope that any uncharitable references to Ms Gilbert’s character which may come out in court will be treated with equal leniency.’
It was waspish, petulant, and unwise. The judge’s face grew cold. ‘You mistake me, Mrs Newby. There was no lenience in my directions this afternoon, and there will no leniency either for you or your client. This is a most unpleasant rape case and will be tried with proper respect shown to the victim. I would have thought that you, as a young woman, would appreciate that.’
Youngwoman, Sarah thought. Odd how a phrase that might be a compliment in one context could be an insult in another. Foolishly, she floundered on. ‘Of course, my lord, but she does have a very chequered history and if my client’s record is to be brought before the jury then in all fairness …’
‘You fail to grasp the point, Mrs Newby. Your client’s record has not been brought before the jury and it will not be unless you choose to tell them about it yourself. Therefore it would be quite improper for you to make irrelevant accusations about Ms Gilbert’s sexual past. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes.’ Sarah bit her lip, counted to ten under her breath, and said, ‘I am grateful to your lordship.’ Then she got to her feet and moved to the door.
The men, either out of reflex politeness or as a further subtle insult, rose to their feet when she did, but did not immediately follow her to the door. When she opened it and turned to bow she saw an ironic smile on the judge’s heavy jowl.
‘After all, Mrs Newby, we’re all feminists here, you know.’
She strode down the softly carpeted corridor, seething with anger and humiliation. Halfway along she paused, wondering if she heard laughter from the judge’s chambers, from which Julian and his junior had still not emerged. Then she burst into the robing room and tore at the stud in her stiff collar with her fingers.
I’ve made a complete mess of it, she thought. My biggest case so far and on the very first day I antagonise the judge to no purpose whatsoever. I sound off about justice with as much emotional control as a teenager on her first date, and now they’re going to be needling me about it for the rest of the week.
She glanced into the mirror and saw with relief that her face was only slightly flushed, not nearly as hot as it felt. It was an attractive face, with neat shoulder length dark hair and hazel eyes around which a network of tiny wrinkles had begun to appear. Perhaps they had always been there but she had only noticed them since she had begun to wear contact lenses eighteen months ago. There’s the problem. Your vision improves and you see faults in yourself, she thought wryly.
As Sarah unbuckled her collar another barrister came into the room — Savendra Bhose, a young Indian from her own chambers. Although he was seven years younger than her they had qualified at the same time, and apart from Lucy he was the person she felt closest to at work. He smiled. ‘Hi! The big rape defender! How’d it go?’
‘Dreadful!’ Sarah dropped her wig into her briefcase. ‘The victim’s as hard as nails, shoots her mouth off about my client’s record, and when I complain the judge tells me he’s a feminist!’
‘What?’ Savendra laughed. ‘You don’t mean old Baskerville Gray?’
‘Yes, the old bloodhound himself. He must be sixty-five if he’s a day, and eighteen stone into the bargain, and he’s in there now with his buddy Julian choking over his port because he told me to respect the rights of women!’
Savendra grinned delightedly. ‘Well, so you should, you know! The man has a point. The world’s changing — even women and blacks can vote nowadays.’
‘Really? I hadn’t heard. No one tells me anything.’ Sarah smiled ruefully. ‘I just blew it, that’s all. Rushed in like a rookie and asked for a retrial and of course he told me the grounds weren’t strong enough and it would be a waste of public funds, etcetera, etcetera … but what am I to do, Savvy, eh? Sit there and smile meekly while they pull a fast one on me?’
‘That hardly sounds like you …’ Savendra began, but got no further before Julian Lloyd-Davies swept in. He nodded at Sarah. ‘No hard feelings, I hope?’
She picked up her briefcase and made for the door. ‘Of course not. It was a long shot anyway.’
He smiled genially. ‘Like the whole case, I should think.’
‘Yours, do you mean? I’ll tell my client that — he’ll be delighted!’
She winked at Savendra and left. Pleased with her smart remark, she ran down the wide eighteenth century staircase to the entrance hall, where Lucy Sampson sat amid a cluster of security guards, witnesses, and departing students. Lucy, a large, motherly solicitor in a baggy black suit, rose to her feet expectantly.
‘Any luck?’
‘No, sorry, I just set them all against me. Come on, let’s go and see Valentino.’
The two women made for the staircase to the police cells, where Gary Harker would be held until the Group 4 van took him back to Hull prison for the night. As they went through the door they left the imposing pomp of the courtroom with its ancient oak panelling, stucco pillars and exotic domed ceiling, and entered a grey, comfortless world of bare stone corridors and clanging cell doors. At the foot of the stairs they met a detective on his way out.