‘I need to make it clear to you, and to your client, that this will not be grounds for an appeal if the case goes against you.’
‘I understand that, My Lord,’ I said. ‘And so does my client.’
Steve Mitchell nodded his agreement to the judge from the dock.
‘Very well,’ said the judge. ‘I have, in fact, spoken to Sir James this morning when he called me to present his apologies.’
Then why, I thought, did you ask me in the first place, you silly old fart?
The prosecution team were all looking at me and smiling, confidence oozing out of their every pore. I simply smiled back.
‘The defendant will rise,’ the clerk said again.
Steve stood up in the dock.
‘You are charged,’ the clerk said to him, ‘that on the seventeenth of November 2008, you did murder Hamish Jamie Barlow, also known as Scot Barlow. Do you understand the indictment?’
‘Yes,’ Steve replied.
‘How do you plead?’ the clerk asked him.
‘Not guilty,’ Steve said strongly.
Next came the selection and swearing in of the jury.
Everyone watched as a mixed bag of individuals entered the court and sat on more green-covered seats on the other side. There were eighteen of them in total, drawn randomly from the electoral roll and summoned to attend the court, whether they wanted to or not. Unlike in the United States neither the defence nor the prosecution had any prior knowledge of who they were or where they lived. We were not allowed to ask them any questions and, since 1989, the defence has not been able to object to a juror simply because they didn’t like the cut of his coat. Objections to jurors now had to be based on firm grounds and, even then, the judge was most likely to dismiss the objection.
Twelve of the eighteen had their names drawn from a box by the court clerk and each one, in turn, took their places in the jury box to my left and were sworn in, on oath, promising to try the case according to the evidence.
The six people, four women and two men, who had not been selected looked decidedly disappointed as they were excused by the judge back to the jury rooms upstairs, maybe to get luckier in one of the other courts.
And now we were ready to begin in earnest.
The court clerk stood up and read out the indictment to the jury. ‘That on the seventeenth of November 2008, Stephen Miles Mitchell did murder Hamish Jamie Barlow, known as Scot Barlow, contrary to common law.’
‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,’ the prosecution QC was on his feet almost before the clerk had sat down. ‘You will hear, in this case, of a bitter feud in the world of horse racing that was so acrimonious that it led to the gruesome killing of one jockey at the hands of another. A story of rivalry and revenge that goes far beyond the accepted limits that exist in any competitive sport.’ He paused briefly to draw breath, and also to find a sheet of paper that he picked up from the desk and consulted, not that he probably needed to. It was simply for show. ‘Members of the jury, you will hear how the defendant did premeditatively murder the victim by driving a metal-pronged pitchfork deep into his chest, deep into his heart, and how the defendant now claims that he is innocent of the charge and is being framed by person or persons unknown. But the evidence presented to you will convince you, beyond a reasonable doubt, that the defendant is, in fact, culpable of the murder, and that his claims of being framed are meaningless and unfounded, nothing more than the last refuge of a guilty soul.’ He replaced the paper onto the desk.
He was good, I thought. Too damned good. He was also far too melodramatic for my taste but it was working. I could see some of the jury members glancing at the dock with distaste.
In all, it took him more than an hour to fully outline, in considerable detail, the case for the prosecution by which time every one of the jury members was eyeing Steve with contempt. As was always the way with the English legal system, the prosecution had first go in the jury persuasion stakes. The defence would have their turn, in time. I just hoped that something would turn up by then that I could use to help me.
The judge adjourned proceedings for lunch. The slow pace of trials, especially murder trials, was becoming clear to both the jury and the defendant. The rest of us knew already.
I went straight down to the cells to see Steve.
‘My God,’ he said. ‘Did you see the way the jury was looking at me? They all think I’m guilty. I’ve got no bloody chance. I wanted so much to call that lawyer a bloody liar.’
‘Calm down, Steve,’ I said. ‘It’s always like that at the beginning of a trial. We’ll get our turn later.’ I didn’t add that it might get worse when they started calling their witnesses. ‘Have some lunch. I’ll see you in court when we resume, and try to keep calm. Remember what I said to you earlier – don’t say anything, ever. It will not look good to the jury, and it will antagonize the judge. Just bite your lip and keep quiet. You will get your turn. Do you understand?’
He nodded. ‘It’s bloody difficult, though.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘But it’s very important. I’ll see you later.’
I went up in the lift and made some calls on my mobile.
There was no reply from Nikki’s phone, so I tried Arthur.
‘How’s it going?’ he asked.
‘Same as always at the start of a trial,’ I said.
‘That bad, huh?’ he said.
‘Worse. Have you heard from Nikki Payne?’ I asked him.
‘Who?’ he said.
‘Nikki Payne,’ I said again. ‘Solicitor’s clerk from Bruce Lygon’s firm. She said she would pass a message to me through you.’
‘Ah yes,’ he said. ‘Hold on.’ I could hear him rustling papers. ‘Apparently she’s got something from the embassy and she’s chasing the lead. Does that make sense?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Good. And thank you for my hotel. Very amusing.’
‘Thought you’d feel at home,’ he said, laughing.
Arthur had made reservations for me in Oxford at a hotel conveniently placed just a few hundred yards from the court building. And the reason he amusingly thought that I would feel at home was because the hotel had been created by converting the old Oxford Prison, which had housed a different clientele as recently as 1996. My room was in what had been ‘A’ wing of the prison, with galleried landings and rows of old cell doorways. It had all been tastefully converted but it still looked just like the interior of an old Victorian prison, except, of course, for the carpets. The hotel had obligingly left one cell as it had been in the prison days so the hotel guests could see how miserably the other half had once lived. I was amused to notice that porridge was on the breakfast menu.
‘Tell Nikki to call me later if she calls you again,’ I said to him. ‘I want to hear how she’s doing.’
‘Right,’ he said. ‘I will. Anything else you need?’
‘A cast-iron alibi for the defendant would be nice.’
‘See what I can do,’ he said, laughing, and hung up. Arthur would have to really work a miracle, I thought, to get Mr Mitchell out of this hole.
The afternoon proved to be as frustrating as the morning had been, with the investigating police officer in the witness box for the whole two and a half hours. Only once did the judge briefly adjourn things for a few minutes for us all to stretch our legs and visit the lavatories, and to give me some relief from the damn body shell cutting into my groin. How I wished I could have had my recliner chair from my room in chambers, instead of the upright seats of the court.
The policeman, having consulted his notebooks, went through the whole affair in chronological order, from the moment that the police had first arrived at Barlow’s house to discover the body until they had arrested Steve Mitchell at eight fifty-three that evening. He also went on to describe the investigation after the arrest, including the interviewing of the suspect and the forensic tests that the police had performed on Mitchell’s boots and car together with his understanding of the results, but, as he said, he was no expert on DNA testing.