Twenty-One Days (Daniel Pitt #1)(19)

Daniel thought for a moment. Kitteridge’s questions startled him. Kitteridge had talent, but he had worked hard for it, harder than Daniel did. Kitteridge loved it; he loved the idea that law was the elegant but imperfect servant of justice. It was up to them to defend a vision and its errors. It required dedication and, more than that, obedience.

‘No,’ Daniel admitted. ‘I don’t see the law first, I see the people.’

‘How incredibly stupid,’ Kitteridge replied. ‘You’re not supposed to be the judge, you . . . child! You have to serve the law. You are the advocate, or the prosecutor, if you ever get far enough for the Crown to trust you. The judge knows the law and sees that we all conduct ourselves accordingly, and the jury decides who to believe. Didn’t they teach you anything at Cambridge? Did you actually study?’

Daniel was stunned. He had actually studied very hard. He had had to, in order to pass the exams with a decent degree. He said the first truth that was burning a hole in his head. ‘You think that we’ll lose, don’t you? And you’re afraid old fford Croft will blame us because they’ll hang Graves. You believe he’s not guilty because you want him to be, so we’d be justified in getting him off? It might be very clever to win a case like this, but it won’t help you sleep at night to think he did that to his wife and you helped him walk away from it. And that will go on a lot longer than fford Croft’s satisfaction!’

Kitteridge stared at him. ‘You bastard!’

‘Is that your best argument?’ Daniel asked incredulously.

‘Shut up and eat your lunch.’ Kitteridge bent and took a mouthful of cold roast beef and potatoes.

Daniel ate, too. There didn’t seem to be any point in going on talking. He knew that Kitteridge was really afraid. And Daniel might well have ruined the case for him, although he thought it may have been beyond saving anyway.

They went back to the courtroom in silence. The jury had not returned.

By five o’clock, they still had not returned. They would be accommodated overnight, and continue their deliberations in the morning.

‘I’m surprised,’ Kitteridge remarked as he and Daniel went out into the street. ‘I thought we hadn’t a chance. I expected them to come back after an hour or two. I hope to hell we don’t get a hung jury and have to do the whole damn thing again.’

‘Do you want to go and have dinner?’ Daniel suddenly asked, then wished he had not.

‘Are you asking?’ Kitteridge enquired. Then before Daniel could answer, he replied, ‘All right. But let me choose the place. It’s going to be a long night.’

Actually, Daniel would rather not have spent it alone either, although he would not have chosen Kitteridge for company.

The next day seemed to drag interminably. It was four o’clock in the afternoon when the jury finally returned with a verdict.

Kitteridge stood up slowly, as if all his joints were locked.

Daniel could hardly breathe.

The foreman of the jury was asked and answered, ‘Guilty, my lord.’

It seemed for a moment unreal, as if it had been Daniel’s own imagination answering him. Then someone in the gallery started to cough. The rustling began again. The judge sent for the black cap. What a ridiculous charade! What did it matter what he was wearing?

The cap was put upon his head and he formally pronounced sentence of death upon Russell Graves, to be carried out after three Sundays had passed from now. Hanged by the neck until he was dead. That would be in twenty-one days.





Chapter Five


Daniel and Kitteridge travelled back to the office in silence. They took a cab because it was late, and they wished to get to fford Croft before the verdict was in any newspaper, or someone else told him. They rode in silence because there was nothing to say. There were no excuses. In fact, Daniel faced the truth that the momentary flashes of thought that Graves might be innocent were probably born of pity rather than a matter of reason. As Tranmere had said over and over, if not Graves, then who? They had failed to provide a solid, believable answer.

Daniel knew that his success in saving Blackwell could be swallowed up in his failure to defend Graves, whom Marcus had personally required him to represent.

For Kitteridge, it would be far worse. He was considered the firm’s best man in court. It was his responsibility. The fact that Graves was probably guilty was not an adequate excuse.

They arrived at the chambers in Lincoln’s Inn, and were greeted by the chief clerk, Impney, who read their expressions instantly. It was his greatest skill, along with an encyclopaedic memory.

‘Oh dear,’ he said sympathetically. ‘I imagine you would like to tell Mr fford Croft as soon as possible. Shall I bring tea?’

‘Yes, Impney, it wouldn’t hurt. Thank you,’ Kitteridge answered.

‘Yes, sir. Will you be going in too, Mr Pitt?’

‘Yes, he will,’ Kitteridge said without turning around.

‘Very good, sir.’ Impney led the way to fford Croft’s door, knocked, and waited a moment, then opened it. ‘Mr Kitteridge and Mr Pitt have returned, sir,’ he announced, and stepped back for them to enter.

Kitteridge went in; Daniel followed and closed the door behind him.

Marcus fford Croft was not physically a large man, but he had a big presence. Now that he no longer appeared in court himself, he dressed to suit his own tastes. He often wore velvet jackets. His shirts were immaculate, but of all sorts of styles and colours so that Daniel had considered whether or not he might actually be colour blind.