My Husband's Wife(55)
I stop. Both men are watching me.
‘It’s almost as if you were there,’ says Tony slowly.
A picture of the stables comes into my head. The smell of hay. The frost on the rafters. Merlin’s hot breath on my cold neck. Mum’s agonized cry: No! This can’t be true. There’s got to be a mistake.
‘Let’s move on, shall we?’ I say sharply.
If only it was that easy.
March 2001
‘This case, as Your Lordship knows, is of some importance and sensitivity: not only for the defendant, who has always remained consistent in maintaining his innocence, and of course for the family of the deceased, and for the wider public; but also for a member of my defence team, who has been subjected to a campaign of serious harassment. The Crown Prosecution Service, and of course my learned friend, has been made aware of this; and should anyone present in this courtroom have any contact with the culprits, they should know that any repetition will have grave consequences.’
Tony Gordon pauses, to allow the full force of his words to sink in. I have to hand it to him. He’s quite the defender of justice, striding around, waving his hands and eyeballing each member of the jury in turn. I’d be convinced if I was them. What would it be like to be married to a man like Tony? I get the feeling that our barrister is quite capable of making the truth suit him – and convincing himself that he has the perfect right to do so.
The prosecution has already had its say. The opposition put forward a strong case against Joe, claiming he was a controlling abuser and a cold-blooded killer. But it ran out of luck when it came to the ex-girlfriend who had once accused Joe of stalking her. Turns out she had died a year ago from lung cancer. So young! I’m shocked to feel relief. But that’s the law for you. Someone else’s misfortune can strengthen your case.
‘It should also be stated at the beginning,’ continues Tony, ‘that although the matter of the harassment of a member of my team is serious, it seems to have no relevance to the issues in the case. But if that should change, I shall be making an application to introduce it in evidence before the jury.’
I find myself going beetroot. Tony hasn’t prepared me for this.
Despite his point about ‘no relevance’, Tony continues to spell it out. Is this part of his stragegy?
‘Threatening letters have been sent. A bag, containing vital documents, was grabbed in the street. But, worst of all, a horse belonging to one of my colleagues was poisoned in an attempt to make us drop the case.’
My name isn’t mentioned – neither is the fact that the first letter came from Sarah’s uncle – but it’s clear who the ‘colleague’ is from my red face and Tony’s swift but meaningful glance in my direction.
There’s a collective gasp. From the dock, Joe Thomas’s eyes swoop down to catch mine. There’s a compassion which I have not seen before, not even when he was talking about poor Sarah.
How dare Tony flag me up in this way? Then I realize he has done this on purpose. He wants to show the jury the tears in my eyes. Wants them to see the hurt that’s been caused by the unseen powers who don’t want this case to come to court. The jury might not be swayed by Joe Thomas with his haughty manner. But their sympathies might well be aroused by a young woman. Like me.
For a while, my attention is concentrated on making myself act professionally. This is Joe Thomas’s future we are talking about. A man with habits that might seem weird to anyone else. A man who is the victim of a national scandal.
As my embarrassment dies down, I find myself looking round the court. I haven’t been in this one before. Until now, my work for the firm has been in the tribunal courts. This is different. It’s bigger. Almost church-like. The wood is mahogany. Joe Thomas is above us in a glass cage. His hands are gripping the shelf in front of him. It’s hot in here, even though there’s frost on the ground which almost made me slip when I got here at 8.30 this morning. It strikes me that from the outside, this court, like many others, looks like an ordinary large municipal building, with its grubby white facade and distant air. Yet its exterior appearance belies the circus – and theatre – that is going on around us.
A man’s future is at stake.
Such responsibility!
I begin to sweat.
Joe Thomas is doing the same.
We watch Tony and the prosecution examine and then cross-examine boiler experts, statisticians, health and safety officers, the attending policemen and -women from the night of the murder. Then he throws a grenade. Another one he hasn’t prepared me for. He calls to the stand the man who moved into Joe’s flat after Sarah’s death. After asking a series of innocuous opening questions, he gets to the point.
‘Can you describe your new neighbours, Mr and Mrs Jones?’ Tony asks.
The young man sighs audibly. ‘Difficult. We complained about the noise of their television. First to them, but when they ignored us, we wrote to the council, but nothing’s changed. It’s become completely unbearable. We’ve put in for another place.’
‘Would you believe their claims of hearing screaming from the deceased’s home?’
‘Frankly, I’d be surprised if they could hear anything above the sound of their television.’
I knew Tony was good. But not this good.
Then Sarah’s old boss takes the stand. She hadn’t wanted to give evidence, because she’d been a ‘mate’. But under oath, she admits that Sarah had a ‘drinking problem’. It turns out that Sarah had been given a final warning for being drunk while at work.