A Prisoner of Birth Read online

  ‘Some hope,’ he said to both parental enquiries.

  By the time Alex left for London on Sunday afternoon, he had rehearsed the questions he intended to put to Beth Wilson the following day, with his father acting as the judge. Not a difficult task for the old man. After all, that was exactly what he had done for the past twenty years before retiring.

  ‘Sackville tells me you’re holding your own,’ his father reported, ‘but he feels you sometimes take unnecessary risks.’

  ‘That may be the only way I can find out if Cartwright is innocent.’

  ‘That’s not your job,’ responded his father. ‘That’s for the jury to decide.’

  ‘Now you’re sounding like Mr Justice Sackville,’ Alex said with a laugh.

  ‘It’s your job,’ continued his father, ignoring the comment, ‘to present the best possible defence for your client, whether he is guilty or not.’

  His father had clearly forgotten that he’d first proffered this piece of advice when Alex was seven years old, and had repeated it countless times since. By the time Alex went up to Oxford as an undergraduate, he was ready to sit his law degree.

  ‘And Beth Wilson, what sort of witness do you imagine she’ll make?’ his father asked.

  ‘A distinguished silk once told me,’ replied Alex, tugging the lapels of his jacket pompously, ‘that you can never anticipate how a witness will turn out until they enter the box.’

  Alex’s mother burst out laughing. ‘Touché,’ she said as she cleared the plates and disappeared into the kitchen.

  ‘And don’t underestimate Pearson,’ said his father, ignoring his wife’s interruption. ‘He’s at his best when it comes to cross-examining a defence witness.’

  ‘Is it possible to underestimate Mr Arnold Pearson QC?’ asked Alex, smiling.

  ‘Oh yes, I did so to my cost on two occasions.’

  ‘So were two innocent men convicted of crimes they didn’t commit?’ asked Alex.

  ‘Certainly not,’ replied his father. ‘Both of them were as guilty as sin, but I still should have got them off. Just remember, if Pearson spots a weakness in your defence he’ll return to it again and again, until he’s sure that it’s the one point the jury remember when they retire.’

  ‘Can I interrupt learned counsel, to ask how Susan is?’ asked his mother as she poured Alex a coffee.

  ‘Susan?’ said Alex, snapping back into the real world.

  ‘That charming girl you brought down to meet us a couple of months ago.’

  ‘Susan Rennick? I’ve no idea. I’m afraid we’ve lost touch. I don’t think the Bar is compatible with having a personal life. Heaven knows how you two ever got together.’

  ‘Your mother fed me every night during the Carbarshi trial. If I hadn’t married her, I would have died of starvation.’

  ‘That easy?’ said Alex, grinning at his mother.

  ‘Not quite that easy,’ she replied. ‘After all, the trial lasted for over two years – and he lost.’

  ‘No I didn’t,’ said his father, placing an arm round his wife’s waist. ‘Just be warned, my boy, Pearson’s not married, so he’ll be spending his entire weekend preparing devilish questions for Beth Wilson.’

  They hadn’t granted him bail.

  Danny had spent the past six months locked up in Belmarsh high-security prison in south-east London. He languished for twenty-two hours a day in a cell eight foot by six, the sole furnishings a single bed, a formica table, a plastic chair, a small steel washbasin and a steel lavatory. A tiny barred window high above his head was his only view of the outside world. Every afternoon they allowed him out of the cell for forty-five minutes, when he would jog around the perimeter of a barren yard – a concrete acre surrounded by a sixteen-foot wall topped with razor wire.

  ‘I’m innocent,’ he repeated whenever anyone asked, to which the prison staff and his fellow inmates inevitably responded, ‘That’s what they all say.’

  As Danny jogged around the yard that morning, he tried not to think about how the first week of the trial had gone, but it proved impossible. Despite looking carefully at each member of the jury, he had no way of knowing what they were thinking. It might not have been a good first week, but at least Beth would now be able to tell her side of the story. Would the jury believe her, or would they accept Spencer Craig’s version of what had happened? Danny’s father never stopped reminding him that British justice was the best in the world – innocent men just don’t end up in prison. If that was true, he would be free in a week’s time. He tried not to consider the alternative.

  Arnold Pearson QC had also spent his weekend in the country, at his cottage in the Cotswolds with its four-and-a-half-acre garden – his pride and joy. After tending the roses he attempted to read a well-reviewed novel, which he ended up putting to one side before deciding to go for a walk. As he strolled through the village he tried to clear his mind of everything that had been taking place in London that week, although in truth the case rarely strayed from his thoughts.

  He felt that the first week of the trial had gone well, despite the fact that Redmayne had proved to be a far doughtier opponent than he had expected. Certain familiar phrases, obvious hereditary traits and a rare gift of timing brought back memories of Redmayne’s father, who in Arnold’s opinion was the finest advocate he had ever come up against.

  But thank heavens, the boy was still green. He should have made far more of the time issue when Craig was in the witness box. Arnold would have counted the paving stones between the Dunlop Arms and the front door of Craig’s mews house, with a stopwatch as his only companion. He would then have returned to his own home, undressed, showered and changed into a new set of clothes while once again timing the entire exercise. Arnold suspected that the combined times would amount to less than twenty minutes – certainly no more than thirty.

  After he had picked up a few groceries and a local paper from the village store, Pearson set off on the return journey. He stopped by the village green for a moment, and smiled as he recalled the 57 he had scored against Brocklehurst some twenty years before – or was it thirty? All that he loved about England was embodied in the village. He looked at his watch, and sighed as he accepted that it was time to return home and prepare for the morrow.

  After tea, he went to his study, sat down at his desk and ran an eye over the questions he had prepared for Beth Wilson. He would have the advantage of hearing Redmayne examine her before he had to ask his first question. Like a cat ready to pounce, he would sit silently at his end of the bench waiting patiently for her to make some tiny mistake. The guilty always make mistakes.

  Arnold smiled as he turned his attention to the Bethnal Green and Bow Gazette, confident that Redmayne would not have come across the article that had appeared on the front page some fifteen years ago. Arnold Pearson may have lacked Mr Justice Redmayne’s elegance and style, but he made up for it with the hours of patient research, which had already uncovered two further pieces of evidence that would surely leave the jury in no doubt of Cartwright’s guilt. But he would save both of them for the defendant, whom he was looking forward to cross-examining later in the week.

  On the day Alex was bantering with his parents over lunch in Bath, Danny was running round the exercise yard at Belmarsh prison and Arnold Pearson was visiting the village store, Beth Wilson had an appointment with her local GP.

  ‘Just a routine check,’ the doctor assured her with a smile. But then the smile turned to a frown. ‘Have you been under any unusual stress since I last saw you?’ he asked.

  Beth didn’t burden him with an account of how she had spent the past week. It didn’t help that her father remained convinced Danny was guilty, and would no longer allow his name to be mentioned in the house, even though her mother had always accepted Beth’s version of what had taken place that night. But was the jury made up of people like her mother, or her father?

  Every Sunday afternoon for the past six months, Beth had visited Danny in Belmarsh prison, but no