When You Are Mine(104)
‘Your Worships, Philomena McCarthy is twenty-seven years old, and is a serving police officer. She graduated equal top of her class at the Hendon Police College and has, until recently, earned glowing performance reviews for her service.
‘Miss McCarthy is due to be married a week on Saturday and more than a hundred guests are coming to her wedding. Her parents are both in court today and they are committed to taking her home and ensuring that Philomena defends these charges, which she strenuously denies.’
Quietly, yet passionately, Helgarde pushes back against the weight of evidence, respecting the story that I told him. There are no verbal fireworks or debating flourishes, but instead, he shows a practised sincerity and a deep appreciation of the legal tenet that every defendant is innocent until proven guilty.
Summers gets to his feet, thumbs hitched to his belt and feet splayed.
‘A life sentence is mandatory for murder, but there are statutory guidelines that determine how long “life” should be. These minimum terms are set at a starting point of thirty years when a police officer is killed. That is because the community regards crimes against the police as being attacks on the rule of law; and against society itself.’
‘Spare us the grandstanding,’ mutters Helgarde.
Summers ignores the comment. ‘A man is dead. A decorated detective was handcuffed to a bed and set alight. This defendant’s DNA and fingerprints were found at the scene. She had threatened Sergeant Goodall. She had stalked his family and tried to smear his name.’
‘My client has an alibi,’ says Helgarde, still on his feet.
‘Her lover.’
‘That is a lie!’ I shout.
‘Please instruct your client to be quiet,’ says the chairman.
Summers continues. ‘We believe the defendant to be a flight risk. She recently applied for a new passport and the police found two airline tickets at her address.’
‘For her honeymoon,’ says Helgarde.
‘The safety of the wider community must be paramount.’
‘And the safety of my client shouldn’t be ignored,’ says Helgarde. ‘In prison she will have to be kept in solitary and the guards will do her no favours. PC McCarthy doesn’t dispute that her DNA was found in the house. She claims to have visited that address prior to the murder; and the prosecution cannot place her at the scene on the night in question.
‘She also admits that she disliked the victim because he beat his wife and his mistress and terrorised his children. But to handcuff a man to the bed and set him on fire, to watch him die, that takes real hatred. That’s primal fury. That is a crime of passion.’ Helgarde pauses and I half expect him to step closer to the bench, or wander around the courtroom as he makes his case, both actions which aren’t allowed in British courts. Barristers are meant to stay at the bar table.
‘This is a headline-grabbing case,’ continues Helgarde, ‘which will make or break careers. Enormous pressure has been placed upon police to obtain a quick conviction because one of their own has been killed. Overtime was cancelled. Emotions ran high. Corners were cut. When a suspect emerged, the investigation immediately stopped looking for anyone else because it might compromise their one shot at a conviction. That’s why they have not examined the other possibilities. Philomena McCarthy is right in front of them and has become their only option. It’s easy. It’s simple. Let’s make it stick. But that is not how the legal system should function. My client is owed the presumption of innocence. She is not a flight risk. And she is not a danger to the community. Set bail and let her go home until a jury can decide.’
The magistrates have heard enough. They confer, speaking in whispers. The chairman turns back to the court.
‘Bail is set at one million pounds. The defendant will surrender her passport, and report daily to the nearest police station to her residence. There will be no contact with prospective witnesses.’
He addresses me directly.
‘Should you decide to get married, Miss McCarthy, there will be no honeymoon, do you understand?’
‘Yes, Your Worship.’
I glance at my father, who is already getting to his feet. A million pounds. He doesn’t look shocked by the figure. Maybe it’s too ridiculous to even countenance. I want some signal, or sign, but he has already turned away.
58
Two hours later, I am escorted from the cells and handed my belongings in a plastic bag. I am not party to the signatures or the lodging of sureties or whatever other guarantees were required to secure my release. Clifton and Daragh have come to collect me, both dressed in crisp white shirts and clean jeans and shiny black shoes. It looks like a uniform. I kiss their cheeks and apologise for looking like ‘death warmed up’.
‘Where did Daddy get a million pounds in two hours?’ I ask.
‘Eddie would have robbed the Bank of England,’ replies Daragh.
Dozens of reporters and TV crews have been waiting outside the courthouse, which is why we leave through a side entrance in Seymour Place. Clifton holds open the car door. I’m about to duck inside when I hear someone shout. A photographer has found us. Moments later, a phalanx of journalists and photographers come into view, scrambling to get TV cameras onto shoulders and spotlights in place.
‘The bastards!’ says Clifton. He pushes me onto the back seat and throws a coat over my head, which smells of nicotine and breath mints. I used to question why people covered their faces for the cameras outside courtrooms and police stations. Surely, it made them look guiltier, as though they had something to hide. But now I understand. It’s a fear that the camera will expose some hidden doubt or frailty; or make me look like a startled deer trapped in the high beams of an advancing truck.