The Verdict Read online

  ‘Why?’

  ‘People hate success. Especially in this country. Way it goes,’ he shrugged. ‘Which reminds me…’

  He sifted through his file, pulled out a couple of sheets of paper.

  ‘Ahmad Sihl, my business lawyer, has put together a list of all the ongoing deals I had before my arrest. They were at various stages, some close to conclusion, others in mid-air,’ he said, passing her the pages. ‘He’s got a team of investigators looking into my competition.’

  ‘Are you saying you were set up?’ Redpath asked, with a hint of amusement.

  ‘There’s no other explanation for all this. Don’t tell me it never occurred to you?’

  Redpath didn’t answer. Of course it hadn’t occurred to him. Or to me. Or to Janet, for that matter. It was one of the first questions she would’ve asked him. Yet no one had raised the subject, let alone considered it. Why? Because there was no conspiracy here, no frame, no set-up. He’d killed Evelyn Bates.

  As for Christine, I don’t think she believed it either. Otherwise, she would’ve been kicking up a stink right now, about another lawyer getting involved in her case, potentially undermining the defence she was putting together. But she hadn’t reacted.

  And what about Ahmad Sihl? What was he doing? Squeezing one huge paycheque out of his client while he still could? Being a friend – a real friend – and therefore in denial? Or did he believe VJ was innocent?

  Redpath passed me VJ’s pages and I caught his eye, saw the sardonic gleam in them.

  I looked through the list. Over a dozen deals in date order, their status and rival bidders by company or organisation. Most had individual names alongside them. No one I’d heard of. Many were foreign. A couple of deals had been crossed out and marked ‘Non-Applicable’ – Stratford Quakers and the Chelmsford Co-Op.

  ‘Has Ahmad come up with anything yet?’ Christine asked.

  ‘No,’ VJ said. ‘He has your contact details, though. He’ll be in touch.’

  Christine handed him a copy of the lab report.

  I watched him read it. He scanned it fast, too fast, I thought. Either he’d learned to speed-read in the last twenty years, or he already knew the contents.

  When he’d finished, she talked him through it.

  She kept her tone neutral, and her eyes fixed on him, as she linked each piece of evidence to the prosecution’s case. He listened to her, hands flat on the table, occasionally nodding, sometimes taking notes. Hair, fibre, tissue, blood, saliva, sperm.

  ‘That’s the Crown’s case against you. So far,’ she concluded.

  ‘You mean there’s more?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘There’s an innocent explanation for all of this.’

  ‘Innocent?’ Christine said. ‘All of it?’

  ‘Yes,’ he smiled.

  ‘Even the Rohypnol?’

  He lost the smile. Fast.

  ‘What?’ he said.

  ‘You know what that is?’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘It was present in Evelyn Bates’s body. It’s there in the autopsy. It was found in her blood, which means she ingested it mere hours before her death. The effects of Rohypnol last between eight and twelve hours, depending on the dose and the individual’s metabolism. It’s at its most potent early on. It starts wearing off as the body eliminates it, which it does fairly quickly. All trace of the drug disappears from the bloodstream within twenty-four hours, and the rest is eliminated through sweat and urine over the next one or two days.

  ‘Looking at Evelyn’s toxicity report, the Rohypnol-to-blood ratio is very high. This is in part because she was dead when the sample was taken. Blood coagulates post-mortem and becomes concentrated, as do the various elements and toxins within it – including any drugs. Irrespective of this, the Rohypnol percentage is still high enough to suggest she was very much under the influence of the drug when she was killed. Which means she’d taken or been given the substance between one and two hours before her death.’

  ‘That wasn’t me. I barely talked to her ten seconds!’

  ‘You’ve read Rudy Saks’s statement. He’s the waiter who —’

  ‘That didn’t happen. He never came to the room.’

  ‘Saks said – and I quote – “The woman was sitting up across the couch, with her shoes off. She looked stoned, like she’d smoked a strong joint or something. Her eyes were fluttering and she had this stupid smile on her face.”’

  ‘That didn’t fucking happen!’ VJ snapped.

  Christine ignored him and his anger.

  ‘We’ve had more disclosure relating to Saks’s account. The Suite 18 phone log shows you – someone – making a call to room service at 12.43 a.m. on March 17th. It lasted a minute and a half. Your fingerprints were found on the phone. You have to press “3” for room service. Your print was on the button.’

  ‘Of course it was,’ he said. ‘I ordered a bottle of vodka as soon as I got to the room.’

  ‘At around 5.40 p.m., the previous day?’

  ‘That’s right. What I didn’t do was order champagne. And I didn’t open the door for Rudy Saks – or anyone. And Evelyn Bates was not in my suite. At 12.43 a.m. I was passed out on the couch.’

  ‘So you keep saying. But the evidence says differently.’

  ‘Damn the evidence! I was passed out!’

  Christine closed her file.

  ‘What about the thong they found in the bin?’ she said.

  ‘That I remember.’

  Redpath grinned at me. His eyes said, I can’t wait to hear this.

  ‘I had a wank,’ VJ said, matter-of-factly.

  Christine looked him right in the eye.

  ‘Why is it we’re only talking about this now?’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘You never said anything about masturbating at the scene.’

  VJ glanced at me for an instant, then back to Christine.

  ‘It’s not how it looks,’ he said.

  ‘And how’s that?’

  ‘Like I’m some kind of… freak. A… a sick fuck.’

  ‘That’s exactly how it looks, Vernon,’ Christine said. ‘It looks like you drugged Evelyn Bates, strangled her on the floor, carried her to the bedroom, stripped her naked, posed her and jerked off in her panties.’

  VJ held his head in his hands, rubbed his temples, breathed deeply through his nose. It was warm in here, and the air reeked of industrial floor cleaner, heavy on bleach and artificial citrus.

  ‘I didn’t mention the thong before, because… because… Because when you’re arrested for murder, the last thing you’re going to remember is the wank you had the night before.’

  ‘When did you remember?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said.

  ‘Before or after you were taken to the station?’

  ‘After, when I was in the police cell.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say anything then?’

  ‘I didn’t think it was relevant.’

  ‘A thong with your sperm all over it, in the same radius as the body of a naked woman in a room you were staying in, is very relevant, don’t you think?’

  ‘I was confused, wasn’t I?’ VJ said, testily. ‘All I could think was, What the hell’s going on? How hard do I have to pinch myself to wake up?’

  I’d been writing everything down. I didn’t look up. I didn’t want to catch VJ’s eye. I didn’t want him to see I thought he was talking crap.

  ‘Vernon, this is the first time you’ve said anything about a thong. A key piece of evidence. A damning piece of evidence. Why?’

  ‘I’ve just told you!’

  ‘You could – and should – have told Janet about it, on the four or five times you met her. You could’ve told Terry. And you could – and should – have told me. Instead you wait for us to hear about it from the prosecution. You’re doing their job for them.’

  ‘It was… I don’t know… embarrassing. OK? I didn’t think it’d… Shit!’ He slammed the tab
le and looked away.

  ‘Is there anything else you haven’t told us about that night?’ she asked him.

  ‘That’s everything.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So I’m not going to get any more surprises from the CPS – find out things you were too “embarrassed” to tell me?’

  ‘No,’ he said, through clenched teeth.

  Christine had maintained a steely tranquillity, never once raising her voice, not even when she’d been skewering him. VJ had completely lost his cool. He’d gone from affability to tipping-point anger in a matter of seconds. The man sitting next to me, seething and looking daggers at his barrister, had a short fuse. And he was every ounce and inch capable of violence. I could see it, and so would a jury. All Carnavale would have to do was push him – and not even that hard.

  ‘OK, now tell me what happened with the thong,’ Christine said.

  ‘I… I jerk – masturbated into it and threw it in the bin afterwards.’

  ‘We know that, Vernon,’ Christine said. ‘I want to know as to why and when. What possessed you to do something like that?’

  ‘What possessed me?’ He laughed, mockingly.

  Christine glowered at him. He raised his hand in apology.

  ‘Let’s start with why,’ she said.

  ‘As I’ve said from the start, I didn’t take Evelyn Bates up to my room. So the thong’s not hers,’ he said.

  ‘Whose is it?’

  ‘Fabia’s.’

  ‘Fabia’s?’

  ‘Before she attacked me, I told you she bit my lip?’ he said.

  Christine nodded. Go on.

  ‘She drew blood. I went to the bathroom to clean up. When I came out, I saw her smoothing her dress down like she was straightening it. A little later we fought. She beat me up, knocked me over and tried to push the minibar on me. Then she ran out of the room. A while later, I got up. I saw the thong lying on the floor. I supposed it was Fabia’s. I thought she’d taken it off when I was in the bathroom. And so —’

  ‘Where on the floor was the thong?’ Christine asked.

  ‘By the wall.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Where the minibar is – was.’

  Christine frowned. Then she pulled out the police photographs of the hotel suite, pawed through them until she found the one she wanted. She slid it across to him.

  ‘Show me.’

  VJ looked at the photo and pointed.

  ‘You’re sure?’ she asked.

  ‘Pretty much.’

  I tried to see what he was pointing at, but couldn’t without craning over.

  ‘You previously stated that Fabia pulled the minibar out?’ she said.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Did you see Fabia holding the thong – or see it in her hand at any time?’

  ‘No.’

  She took the picture back from him. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, I… I picked it up and… you know… looked at it, and, um… I jerked off. Masturbated.’

  Redpath guffawed. VJ shot him an angry look.

  I didn’t find it funny. I thought it was a really stupid, desperate lie. Just like the conspiracy theory angle he was trying to work.

  Christine stayed inscrutable.

  ‘So, you’re saying that this woman – Fabia – attacked you. Assaulted you, quite seriously. And, instead of calling hotel security, or a doctor, you masturbated over her underwear?’

  ‘That’s what I did, yeah,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why did I jerk off, or why didn’t I call security?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘I jerked off, because I had an erection and nothing better to do with it. I didn’t call security because… I was embarrassed about getting… Call me unreconstructed, or whatever you want, but I was embarrassed about getting beaten up by a woman.’

  ‘What did you do with the thong after you’d finished?’

  ‘Threw it in the bin,’ he said, miming an overhand lob.

  Christine looked through her notes. Turned the pages of her pad back, read those. Frowned. Turned more pages, loudly. Air-treading tactics, silence to make him feel uncomfortable. It was working. He’d slid to the edge of his seat and was leaning forward, fingers interlaced.

  ‘Vernon, I saw the pictures of your torso. You had heavy bruising on your abdomen, consistent with a big kick or a punch. You must’ve been in some pain.’

  ‘I was,’ he said.

  ‘But you masturbated instead of getting help?’

  ‘What can I say? It was a sexy thong. I imagined Fabia in it. Nature took its course.’

  Christine shook her head. ‘Fabia? The same woman who beat you up?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Did you like it? Getting beaten up?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Is that your thing? You’re not a sadist like the prosecution say, but a masochist? You like women kicking the crap out of you?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Right before Fabia attacked me, we were in the first throes of foreplay. I had a hard-on, as you do. I still had a hard-on when she was attacking me. Not because it turned me on, not because I bloody wanted one, but because these things have a will of their own. All head and no brain.’

  ‘And that’s your defence, is it?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘Franco Carnavale will have a field day with this,’ she said. ‘Do you know what he’s going to do?’

  VJ didn’t answer.

  ‘He’s going to make the jury laugh,’ she said.

  ‘So what? It is kind of funny. Even I can see that.’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ she said. ‘When a jury laughs at you, they no longer take you seriously. And if there’s one thing Carnavale knows how to do, it’s to make a jury laugh.

  ‘He has a particular tone he uses to ridicule someone. A kind of nasal, upper-register sneer. It’s so famous in legal circles it has a name. “The Kazoo”. As in the plastic wind instrument that sounds like a wasp serenading a dentist’s drill. That’s how he’ll sound when he’s cross-examining you. Trust me, it works.’

  VJ sighed and slumped back, every spring in his body suddenly lax, as if half the life in him had been sucked out.

  He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

  ‘They’re going to find me guilty, aren’t they?’ he mumbled.

  Christine looked at him dispassionately.

  ‘We’re beyond innocence and guilt now, Vernon.’

  He swallowed hard and blinked a few times.

  ‘What are you saying? You think I did it?’

  ‘No. But I don’t believe you, Vernon. I don’t believe you’re telling me the whole truth.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘The evidence says you’re guilty. You don’t have an alibi, and you have no witnesses to back you up. The only thing you have in your defence is your word. And that, frankly, counts for nothing at the moment.’

  Redpath and I exchanged a look. We were both confused as to what was happening.

  I found myself thinking back to Rodney James’s murder, and VJ banging on our door after he’d been interviewed, virtually hysterical, fear and panic in his eyes. They’re saying I killed him! I wondered if the same memory wasn’t playing somewhere in his mind now. And if it was, how ironic was he finding the situation – to be accused of another murder, with me, once again, cast as his potential saviour?

  Christine leaned forward.

  ‘As of now, I – we are going to have to approach your defence from a whole new angle. We’re no longer going to say that you didn’t do it. That’s the wrong way to fight this.’

  ‘Why?’ he said.

  ‘Because that’s what they’re expecting us to do. That’s what the prosecution is preparing for.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ he said.

  I did.

  Christine had told us what she was going to do when we’d first met her. She’d just been waiting for the right moment to reveal
it to her client – namely when she had a clearer picture of what she was up against.

  ‘Do you know what I mean by “beyond a reasonable doubt”?’

  ‘Yeah, I think so. The jury has to be absolutely convinced of a person’s guilt before convicting them.’

  ‘Who has to convince them?’

  ‘The prosecution.’

  ‘And how?’

  ‘With the evidence.’

  ‘Exactly. The evidence,’ she said. ‘A juror’s worst nightmare is getting it wrong – sending an innocent person to prison. I intend to give them those nightmares, those reasonable doubts – every day of the trial. In other words, I’m not going to defend you, I’m going to attack the evidence against you.’

  The ‘Stupid’ defence.

  ‘Franco Carnavale is going to build his case primarily on the evidence he’s already given us. He’s so sure of it that he hasn’t sat on it like they often do. And I can see why. It’s a very strong case.

  ‘However, every case is invariably flawed. Think of it as a house of cards. The cards represent all the evidence – witness accounts, police reports, lab reports, physical evidence. One layer supports another. But the whole thing can only stand up as long as a card – a key piece of evidence – isn’t removed.

  ‘Better still, if two or more cards go, so does much of the case. You can then take the stand, look Carnavale right in the eye and say with a straight face, “Yes, I masturbated because I had an erection and nothing better to do with it.” It’ll sound crude and rude, but the jury won’t see you as a “sick fuck”. Just a drunk, horny bloke who had a wank in the privacy of his hotel room. Do you know why you’ll be able to do that?’

  ‘Because the prosecution’s case will lack credibility?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Simple but stunning, I thought. Simple in its imagery, stunning and convincing in its delivery.

  And then she went on, outlining flaws in the case I hadn’t seen or thought of. Hairline fractures that could be worked into gaping holes. Evelyn could have popped Rohypnol voluntarily. It was also used and abused as a party drug, the anti-E, something clubbers took to come down. Yes, yes, he had called room service seven hours before and ordered up a litre of Grey Goose. That easily explained his fingerprints on the phone. Don’t worry about that. As for that waiter – we were already looking into his background…