Twenty-One Days (Daniel Pitt #1)(15)
Daniel had taken a cab ride from his lodgings to the Old Bailey. He could not afford to risk being late by using the public omnibus. He fully expected Kitteridge to be washed out as well, not only from the long day yesterday, but also with anxiety about fighting when he had so little ammunition, and a very real prospect of losing. It was an important case, and a bad one to lose, because it was highly public and Marcus fford Croft obviously cared about it dearly.
Why? That was an interesting question. What stake had the old man in the outcome? Or in Russell Graves? Did Kitteridge know something important that he could not, or would not, tell Daniel? Something to do with Marcus fford Croft?
The cabby put him down on Ludgate Hill and Daniel thanked and paid him. He ran up the large flight of stone steps outside the Central Criminal Court, and in through the wide doors. Kitteridge was waiting for him just inside.
‘Morning,’ Kitteridge said, barely glancing at Daniel before turning on his heel and leading the way along the wide hall towards the back, and the small room where Graves would be waiting for them. They had already discussed their plans last night, actually in the small hours of this morning. There was no more to be said now.
Daniel had to stride to match Kitteridge’s long steps. The man must have been around six-foot three or four, and loose-limbed, coordinated only with an effort.
They came to a door with a guard outside. He greeted Kitteridge and then unlocked the door. Kitteridge thanked him and led the way in, Daniel on his heels.
There was only one man inside. He was large, heavy shouldered, with a fine head of iron-grey hair. His features were good. Only a greyish pallor and an expression of discontent marred what would otherwise have been a striking appearance. He looked no different from how he had been yesterday in the dock, except even more strained.
Kitteridge introduced Daniel briefly, then sat down opposite Graves. Daniel took the other chair and remained silent.
‘We haven’t got long – only half an hour – so we will be brief,’ Kitteridge began. ‘I will call you to the stand first thing. Please answer me as we have already agreed—’
‘What use is that going to be?’ Graves interrupted. He had a good voice, deep pitched, and a well-educated accent without sounding affected, but his fear showed through in a heightened pitch and a certain abruptness. ‘I don’t know any details that haven’t been sworn to by the police, doctors, firemen, and God knows who else.’
Daniel saw Kitteridge’s face tighten and knew that it cost him something to keep his own tone level.
‘They need to see your reaction to it, judge your honesty for themselves,’ Kitteridge explained. ‘They need to see your grief over your wife’s death, and hear you say you were not responsible. You know nothing you have not told the police—’
‘Good God, man, of course I know nothing!’ Graves said in ill-concealed exasperation.
Kitteridge clenched his jaw. ‘I know that. They need to hear it.’
‘You told them . . .’
Kitteridge’s fists were clenched in his lap under the table. ‘They need to hear it from you.’
‘I’m a . . .’ Graves began.
Daniel had agreed to keep silent but now he broke that agreement. ‘Mr Graves, sir, it is not only what you say, but it is how you say it,’ he interrupted. ‘They have to want to believe you. They have to like you and to sympathise with you. For that, they need to feel some of your grief, your bewilderment at what happened – and believe that you don’t know!’
Graves turned to look at him. ‘I thought you were here as an assistant.’
Kitteridge drew in his breath to speak, and let it out silently. It was a mark of his anxiety that he let Daniel get away with the interruption.
‘I am,’ Daniel replied. ‘I am trying to assist you to understand that your life depends on the twelve men of the jury being willing to believe that in spite of the evidence, there is reasonable doubt that you are responsible for your wife’s death. Whatever the truth is, all the facts shown so far are against you. We’ve got this morning to convince them to look beyond those facts, and see a decent man, not unlike themselves, who’s caught up in a tragedy not of his making. We have to persuade them that they do not want to convict you – they would much rather find a reason to acquit – so they will look for a reason.’
Graves raised his eyebrows, but his face was very white. ‘Are they really so . . . guided by their emotions, rather than their reason?’ There was a certain contempt in his tone. ‘I did not kill her! Do you not believe in the justice system you serve, Mr . . .? I’m sorry, I forget your name.’
‘Pitt. And no, I do not believe it is infallible. Nobody who has studied the law could believe anything so – so fanciful. It is run by men. It is subject to all misconceptions and weaknesses that men have,’ Daniel replied.
Graves looked at Kitteridge. ‘Have you also such a jaundiced view of the law, Mr Kitteridge?’
Kitteridge did not look at Daniel. ‘We are dealing with people, Mr Graves. People make mistakes.’
Graves looked back at Daniel. ‘And where did you study law, young man?’
Daniel looked back at him without blinking. ‘Cambridge, sir.’
‘Really . . .?’ Graves was taken by surprise. ‘And just what is it you suggest I do to get these twelve very ordinary men to believe that I am innocent? I did not kill my wife, and I have absolutely no idea who did. I am a very busy man, a leader in my field. I have no idea with whom my wife consorted, who might have wished her harm. Perhaps I am guilty of pursuing my career to a degree that I did not go to parties, and local events, of such like with her. They bore me stiff, and I cannot afford the time. But I quite saw how she might enjoy them, and I gave her an ample budget, and the freedom to do as she chose. Perhaps that is something they would not understand?’