For the first time, Jerome Lawrence stood up to reexamine. It must be because it’s his last witness, Owen thought. He wants to leave a positive impression.
“Just two questions, Dr. Tasker,” he said. “You are fully aware of the nature of the crime, the nature of the victim’s injuries. Would you say, in your expert opinion, that the amounts of the victim’s blood left on the accused’s clothing were in any way too little for him to have committed such a crime?”
“No, I wouldn’t,” said Tasker.
“And could the exchange of blood and tissue have taken place during a struggle for her life?”
“Indeed it could.”
Jerome Lawrence gave an oily bow. “Thank you very much, Dr. Tasker.”
Chapter 12
I
Nothing could have prepared Owen for the shock of seeing Michelle sitting in the gallery when he glanced nervously around the courtroom before going into the witness-box.
His heart thudded against his ribcage. He felt as if a large bird had somehow found its way inside him and was scratching and plucking at his chest and throat, beating its wings, trying to get out. She was still beautiful; she still had the power to make his heart ache and yearn.
If anything, Owen thought, Michelle looked even younger than she had when they had been together: about fifteen or sixteen. She wore no make-up to mar her delicate, alabaster complexion, a maroon blazer and a simple white blouse, very much like the St. Mary’s school uniform.
Her blonde hair-the same color and length as Deborah Harrison’s-hung over her shoulders in exactly the same way Deborah’s had in the newspaper photographs. Her lips, the color of the inside of a strawberry, were fixed in a childish pout. And the implication of innocence and immaturity permeated her entire bearing. Owen wondered if people knew who she was. She was sitting next to a man he had seen there often before: a reporter, Owen thought.
He tried to avoid looking at her. Why was she here? Had the Crown lured her in to upset him? He had already realized that he was participating in a drama, a theatrical event more than anything else, and that the awards would be handed out in a few days’ time. Did Michelle have a part to play, too? She wasn’t going into the box-Shirley Castle had taken care of that-so what was she doing in court?
He was so distracted by her presence that he didn’t hear Shirley Castle calling him to give evidence at first, then the judge called him to the box.
Shirley Castle spent more than a day taking him through the events of that fateful Monday in November, as smoothly as she had before in the interview room near his cell. He felt calm as he spoke, and he hoped the jury wouldn’t interpret this as lack of emotion.
“Minerva,” as far as he could tell, listened to him objectively, a slight furrow of concentration in her brow. Most of the others, he noticed, appeared to be paying attention too, but a couple had disbelieving sneers etched around their lips-that “come on, tell us another one” look he had become so adept at perceiving of late. Occasionally, he sneaked a glance at Michelle. Once in a while she turned and spoke behind her hand to the reporter next to her.
The next day, after Shirley Castle had finished eliciting a reasonable and believable account of events from Owen, or so he thought, Jerome Lawrence dragged himself to his feet. “There hardly seems any point,” Lawrence’s weary, long-suffering movements seemed to be saying, “in bothering with this, as you and I know he’s guilty, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, but duty demands we go through the motions.” Owen looked at the gallery and saw Michelle was in court again.
Lawrence asked what seemed a lot of dull questions for most of the morning, and after lunch he finally began to zoom in on the crime. “Mr. Pierce,” he said, “you have told the jury that between the hours of about six and six-thirty on November 6 last year, you simply walked around the area of St. Mary’s, Eastvale, in the fog, and stood on the bridge for some time. Is this so?”
“Yes.”
“Were you intoxicated, Mr. Pierce?”
“Not at all.”
“You drank, let me see, two pints of beer and a double Scotch at the Nag’s Head, is that right?”
Owen shrugged. “I think so.”
“And you weren’t intoxicated?”
“I’m not saying I didn’t feel the effects at all, just that I was perfectly in control. And I was walking, not driving.”
“You had more to drink later, didn’t you, at the Peking Moon?”
“Yes. With a large meal.”
“Indeed. And can you tell the court why you spent so long standing on the bridge before a fine view that you couldn’t possibly see because of the thick fog?”
“I don’t know, really. It was just what I felt like doing. I had one or two problems to mull over and I find fog helps contemplation.”
“What problems were these?”
Owen saw Shirley Castle making discreet warning signals. He looked Michelle in the eye. “Personal matters. Of no relevance.”
“I see. And was it this same personal matter that led you to drink so much?”
“I didn’t drink a lot. I’ve already told you, I wasn’t drunk.”
“And led you to hide yourself away in the corner of a restaurant and mutter to yourself?”
Owen felt himself flush with embarrassment. “That’s just a habit, like when I’m adding up. I’ve always done it. Sometimes a thought just comes out loud, that’s all. I forget that there are people around. It doesn’t make me a maniac. Or a murderer.”
“Are you sure you weren’t muttering in the Peking Moon about what you’d just done? Murdered Deborah Harrison?”
“Of course not. That’s totally absurd. I was just reasoning with myself, to calm down.”
“Calm down?” There was no missing the verbal underlining in that repetition. “Why did you feel the need to calm down, Mr. Pierce? What made you so agitated in the first place.”
“I wasn’t agitated. There’s a difference between being a little melancholy and being agitated, isn’t there? I mean-”
“Would you please stick to answering my questions?” Lawrence butted in. “If I need lessons in the English language, believe me, I shall ask for them.”
“I’m the one in the dock, aren’t I? Why shouldn’t my opinion count? You’ve asked everyone else’s, haven’t you? Why should I let you get away with distorting the meaning-”
“Mr. Pierce,” Judge Simmonds grumbled. “Please answer Mr. Lawrence’s questions as directly and as clearly as you can.”
“I’m sorry, Your Honor,” said Owen. He turned back to Lawrence. “The answer is no. I wasn’t agitated; I was melancholy.”
“Is it not true that you were upset and dejected about your break-up with a young lady some-”
“Objection!”
“Sustained. Mr. Lawrence!”
“I apologize, Your Honor.”
What the hell was that little skirmish about? Owen wondered, his heart jumping. He glanced at Michelle again. Lawrence was trying it on; he knew damn well that evidence had been ruled inadmissible. The bastard was trying to slip it in regardless. He thanked his lucky stars Shirley Castle was so quick. Still, something had been lodged with the jury, no matter how much the judge might tell them to disregard it. He looked at “Minerva.” She seemed puzzled. Owen’s breath came a little quicker.
“Let us, then, move on to the scientific evidence,” Lawrence continued. “You don’t deny that Deborah Harrison’s hair and blood were found on your clothing?”
“It’s not for me to accept or deny,” Owen said. “I’m not a scientist. If your experts have identified these things, that’s their business.”
“And when faced with this fact by Detective Chief Inspector Banks, you gave him some story about bumping into the girl. Is this true?”
It was plain enough that Lawrence intended “cock and bull” to come before “story.”