A Game of Proof (The trials of Sarah Newby) Read online

  Lloyd-Davies resumed. ‘So on 23rd April last year Gary Harker left your home because of this quarrel, and so far as you were concerned he didn’t live there any more. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes.’ Sharon tossed her hair defiantly. ‘I told him I never wanted to see him again.’

  ‘And did you see him again?’

  ‘No. Well, not for months. I met him at a party at the Royal Station Hotel in October. I wasn’t expecting him, he was just there.’

  ‘I see. What day was this exactly?’

  ‘Saturday the 14th. The same day I was attacked in my house.’

  ‘I see. Would you tell us in your own words, please, exactly what happened that night.’

  So here we go, Sarah thought. She sat quite still, quite focussed - a slim dark figure with her elbows on the leather covered table and her fingers folded delicately under her chin, staring intently at the witness. She has noticed me now, Sarah thought coolly; twice she’s met my eyes, looked away, and back again. She knows I’m here; listening; waiting.

  ‘Well, it was a big party, and there was a lot of people in the hotel, drinking and singing and carrying on. I was having a good time, and then suddenly there was Gary in front of me.’

  ‘What happened then?’

  ‘Well, at first it was OK; I even had a dance with him. But then he got nasty. He said I’d kept his watch when he left, and he wanted it back. When I said I hadn’t got it, he called me a thieving slag and said he’d get it back himself. So I told him to piss off and he did.’

  ‘All right. Did you see him again that night?’

  ‘No. Not until he came to my house and raped me.’

  There was a stir of interest in the public gallery above Sarah’s head. This was what they came for, she thought. Ghouls. She glanced at the jury - eight women, four men; Lloyd-Davies had been lucky there - and saw a look of pity on the face of a motherly woman in the front row.

  ‘All right, Ms Gilbert. Take your time, and in your own words tell the court exactly what happened when you got home that night.’

  At first Sharon did not speak. She glanced down and fiddled with a bracelet as though uncertain, now the moment had come, what to say. But then she lifted her head, stared straight at Lloyd-Davies, and began the story she had, no doubt, rehearsed many times before.

  ‘Right. Well, I got a taxi home at eleven - I couldn’t be any later, because I had a sitter in for the kids, my friend Mary. When I got home they were tucked up on the sofa in front of the telly. My youngest, Katie, had an ear infection so Mary’d brought both of ‘em downstairs. After Mary left I made the kids a hot drink and settled them down in bed. It took a while because Katie was still grizzling so I had to give her a cuddle and play one of her tapes.’

  ‘What tape was that?’ Lloyd-Davies prompted.

  ‘Postman Pat, I think. I’ve bought all those stories for her - she loves ‘em.’

  Oh wonderful, Sarah thought. She raised an eyebrow in cynical admiration of the point of Lloyd-Davies’ question. Hot drinks, Postman Pat - the perfect loving home.

  ‘So how long was it before you managed to get Katie off to sleep?’

  ‘About half an hour, probably - perhaps a bit more. I don’t know exactly - I was dropping off myself in the chair by the bed. Then I heard this noise downstairs.’

  ‘What sort of noise?’

  ‘A crash - like a window breaking. I wasn’t sure if I’d imagined it at first, so I just sat quiet, listening to see if there was anything else. Then after a couple of minutes I heard someone moving around downstairs, so I thought Oh my God and went out onto the landing and then I saw him, coming up the stairs ...’

  Sharon paused, and Sarah watched intently. This was the crucial part of the story - was there any possibility that she was making it up, or was it all true? Sarah’s gloom deepened. It seemed to her that a genuine memory was flooding back to Sharon as she spoke, as if the events she was describing were clearer in her mind than the courtroom she stood in.

  ‘Who did you see?’ Lloyd-Davies asked softly.

  ‘A man in a hood coming up the stairs. One of them balaclava hoods that terrorists wear.’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘Nothing. Screamed, I think. But then he grabbed me, put his hand over my mouth and shoved me back into Katie’s room. I tried to stop him but he was too strong. And he had a knife.’

  ‘Did you see this knife?’

  ‘No. I just felt it. He stuck it into my throat, here.’ She touched the left side of her neck. ‘Just a little, so I’d know it was there. I felt it go into my skin.’

  ‘Did he say anything?’

  ‘Not then, no. He just laughed, and started pulling at my clothes. I was terrified. He pulled my skirt and knickers down and then he ...’ Sharon took a deep breath and plunged on, determined to get it over with. ‘... he turned me round and pushed me face down over the side of the armchair and then he ... he shoved my legs apart and raped me from behind.’

  She stopped and looked at Lloyd-Davies, knowing probably what was to come, but unable to phrase it for herself. The precise, necessary legal language.

  ‘When you say he raped you, you felt his erect penis enter your vagina?’

  ‘Yes. Oh yes, he got it in all right. It hurt, too, it hurt a lot. The doctor saw that after.’

  ‘Yes. And while all this was happening, where was your four-year-old daughter Katie?’

  ‘In her bed, of course, by the armchair. That was the worst part of it. She thought he was killing me, poor kid. I can see her now, in that bed with her mouth wide open screaming her head off. It was like all her nightmares come true - she still dreams about it now, almost every night she wakes up and wets the bed, screaming. Then little Wayne came in and started hitting him to get him off me.’

  Lloyd-Davies held up a hand for her to pause. Then he repeated her point slowly and clearly, to make quite sure the jury had taken it in.

  ‘You’re saying that your seven-year-old son, Wayne, came into the room and started hitting the rapist in order to rescue his mother. Is that right?’

  ‘That’s right.’ For the first time Sharon had tears in her eyes. ‘I told him to get out and run but he’s a little hero, that son of mine. Sticks up for his mother no matter what.’

  ‘So how did the man respond to this attack by a seven-year-old boy?’

  ‘Well, he shoved him off, didn’t he? But Wayne wouldn’t stop, so he said “Get off me, Wayne, you little bugger,” something like that. That was when I guessed who he was.’

  Lloyd-Davies held up his hand again, to emphasise the point. ‘He said “Get off me, Wayne,” did he? He used your son’s name?’

  ‘Yes, he did, definitely. I remember that.’

  ‘And was it that, the use of Wayne’s name, that made you realise who this man was?’

  ‘Well, yes - that and his voice. I recognised that too. It was him - Gary bloody Harker.’ Again she glared at Gary in the dock, and Sarah wished she could see his reaction.

  ‘So what happened then?’

  ‘Well, Gary pulled out of me and stuck the knife in my throat. He said he’d kill me if Wayne didn’t piss off. Then he grabbed my hair and dragged me into another room. My own bedroom.’

  ‘What was your response to all this?’

  ‘Well ... I was screaming, at both of them. I was screaming at Gary to let Wayne alone and at Wayne to stay away. I thought he’d kill him. I didn’t care about myself, I just didn’t want my kids hurt.’

  ‘And were you asking him to leave you alone as well?’

  Sharon stared at him pityingly. ‘What do you think? Of course I was.’

  ‘And how did he respond?’

  ‘Like the animal he is. He smacked me round the face and told me to shut up and do what he said or he’d kill me and the kids too.’

  ‘And you recognised his voice when he said that, too, did you?’

  ‘Oh yeah, it was him all right. Filthy pig.’

  ‘All right. So when
he got you into your bedroom, what happened then?’

  ‘Well, he hit me in the face and I fell down and lay there on the floor. Then he grabbed me by the hair and I thought, it’s all going to start again. But it didn’t, not the rape anyway. Instead he grabbed the cord of my dressing gown and tied my hands behind my back with it, and then tied the long end round my throat so it started to choke me if I didn’t hold my hands high, up my back. Then he put the knife to my throat again and ... I thought I was going to die.’

  ‘Did he say anything?’ Lloyd-Davies asked softly.

  ‘No, not this time.’ Sharon shook her head, lost in the horror of her memory. ‘But there was a noise. I didn’t know what it was at first, then I realized - it was him laughing. I could see it in his eyes too. He just stared at me through that black hood, and ... laughed. I could hardly breathe and he had his knife to my throat and I thought, he’s going to kill me now and then he’ll murder the kids as well.’

  Her eyes flooded with tears and Sarah thought, it’s too much even for her. Too much for any woman to have to say in open court in front of bewigged lawyers and twelve members of a jury and the furiously scribbling newspaper reporters and the serried ranks of German language students in the public galleries above, simultaneously appalled and delighted by the example of British justice they had stumbled upon. To say nothing of the accused, Gary Harker, watching her coldly from the dock. And me, whose job it is to cast doubt on all this.

  Sarah felt ill as she contemplated the magnitude of her task. But it was Sharon’s comfort the judge was concerned with.

  ‘Would you like a break, Ms Gilbert?’ he asked courteously, when the pause had gone on for nearly a minute. But Sharon shook her head determinedly. She wasn’t crying; she had just needed a pause to regain her courage. And she had nearly reached the end of her story.

  ‘What happened next?’ Lloyd-Davies asked.

  ‘He shoved me down on the bed, went to my chest of drawers and pulled out the bottom drawer. And that proved who he was, too.’

  ‘Could you explain that please?’

  ‘Yes, well he went straight to the bottom drawer, where I keep my jewellery in case anyone breaks in. There are six drawers but he went to the bottom one straight away. And the first thing he pulled out was his watch, the one he’d asked about in the hotel. After that he took some rings as well. Then he left, I suppose. Thank God he didn’t hurt the kids.’

  ‘What happened after he left?’

  ‘Little Wayne came in and untied me, bless him. I was nearly choking, I could hardly breathe. Soon as I recovered I called my friend Mary and the police.’

  Sharon looked at Lloyd-Davies with relief. She had done it; the first part of her torment was over.

  Almost over.

  ‘Just a couple more questions, Ms Gilbert, then I’ve finished. You say that you recognised Gary by his voice and the fact that he knew your son’s name, and then you felt even more certain when he went straight to the jewel box in your bottom drawer. Is that because Gary knew you kept it there?’

  ‘Yes. He saw it when he lived with me. And he said in the hotel, I bet I know where that watch is.’

  ‘I see. And did anything else about your assailant make you sure it was Gary?’

  ‘Yes, everything. He was the same size, same build. The kids recognised him. Even his prick was the same, if you really want to know.’

  Sarah Newby raised her eyebrows slightly. Not the wisest point to make to a respectable jury, Sharon, she thought. Did Lloyd-Davies expect her to say that? Surely not.

  But Sharon hadn’t finished. ‘Anyway, he’s done it to other women, hasn’t he? I saw that in the papers.’

  Swiftly Sarah was on her feet, but once again Judge Gray forestalled her. ‘Ms Gilbert, you are here to give evidence about what happened to you, and nothing else, do you understand me?’ He looked directly at the jury. ‘Members of the jury, I must ask you specifically to disregard that last remark. I can tell you categorically that Gary Harker has never been convicted of rape in his life before, and no evidence will be presented in this court about any other charge than the one before you; and if it is you are duty bound to disregard it.’

  ‘I am grateful, my lord.’ Slowly, Sarah sat down. But she had been outmanoeuvred for the second time today, and she wondered bitterly if Sharon’s outburst had been spontaneous, or whether Lloyd-Davies had put her up to it. Was this how you got a silk gown and black Jaguar with a personalised number plate? Am I just going to sit back and take this? No.

  Julian Lloyd-Davies glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘Would My Lord like Ms Gilbert to remain for questions from my learned colleague?’

  The judge smiled protectively at Sharon, as Lloyd-Davies had expected he would. ‘No, no, I think in view of the time and the distressing nature of the evidence, we might adjourn for today. But you must be here tomorrow to answer questions from Mrs Newby, Ms Gilbert. Do you understand?’

  He rose to his feet, the usher bawled ‘all stand!’ and court was over for the day. Julian Lloyd-Davies tied his notes in red tape with a casual, practised hand, and smiled urbanely at Sarah. ‘And the best of British luck, I have to say.’

  Sarah met his gaze coolly. ‘I’m going to need it, if this kind of thing goes on,’ she said. ‘I’m requesting a meeting in chambers straight away. I want this stopped right now.’

  Chapter Two

  THE MEETING in the judge’s chambers was brief and tense. Judge Gray had divested himself of his wig and red gown, and sat comfortably at his desk in a white shirt with blue braces. Through the window behind him Sarah could see trees in the park by the river Ouse. She, Julian Lloyd-Davies and his junior James Morris had also taken off their wigs but still wore their stiff collars and black robes. They sat in upright chairs before the judge’s antique leather-topped desk.

  ‘Well, Mrs Newby?’ Judge Gray sat back with a curt nod which indicated that he knew exactly what she wanted to say and was irritated with her for troubling him with it. Sarah took a deep breath and began.

  ‘My Lord, on two occasions this afternoon the witness made extremely prejudicial references, one to my client’s record and the other to newspaper allegations. Despite your Lordship’s ruling this morning, I must insist that these two references taken together will inevitably blacken my client’s character in the minds of the jury, even if they have not read the press publicity against him. In my respectful submission this jury are now irredeemably prejudiced and I can see no way in which they can be expected to give him a fair trial.’

  She stopped, conscious that it had all come out in a rush and that she was blushing slightly. But she had decided to say it and had said it clearly. The fact was that over the past year in York two women, in addition to Sharon Gilbert, had been attacked. One, Maria Clayton, had been raped and murdered; the second, Karen Whitaker, had had a lucky escape. The local press, convinced that the attacks were the work of a single man, had written a story entitled The Hooded Knifeman, which - to the embarrassment of the police - had been picked up and elaborated by the nationals, some of whom were in court today. Despite extensive police investigation the only man so far brought to trial was Gary Harker. As all the lawyers in the room knew, the police had tried very hard to link him with the other attacks - one of which had involved a hood and both a knife - but had so far failed.

  Gary was charged with the rape of Sharon Gilbert, and no one else. But after Sharon’s remark, Sarah’s contention was that the jury must suspect that he was guilty of those crimes too, even though there was one key piece of evidence - a hair found on a tape used to bind Karen Whitaker - whose DNA did not match Gary’s and seemed to prove his innocence. But since he was not charged with attacking Karen Whitaker, Sarah could not mention this in court.

  Wearily, Judge Gray raised a bushy eyebrow.

  ‘Do I take it that you were not satisfied with my specific instructions to the witness and jury in both instances?’

  Sarah frowned. ‘I am most grateful to your lordship,
of course, but ...’

  ‘But you feel I could have done better?’

  ‘Not exactly, my lord, no.’ Sarah was determined not to be patronised. ‘I make no criticism of your lordship’s interventions but my submission is that the damage has been done and cannot be undone.’

  ‘And so?’

  ‘For my client to receive a fair hearing there should be a new trial and a new jury, my lord. Preferably not in York where there’s been so much publicity about this Hooded Knifeman.’

  So there, she thought. I’ve said it. Now what?

  The judge inclined his head to the man in the silk gown beside her. ‘Julian?’

  Lloyd-Davies smiled - that conspiratorial, collegiate smile that Sarah knew and loathed so well. Julian indeed!

  ‘It seems to me that both incidents were dealt with admirably by your lordship.’ He favoured Sarah with an avuncular glance. ‘I have the greatest respect for my learned friend’s zeal to defend her client, but I believe there have been several directives from the Lord Chancellor’s Office about the cost to public funds of such retrials, have there not? The CPS would strongly oppose such a ruling on the grounds of cost alone.’

  ‘I am aware of the importance of cost, my lord,’ Sarah replied determinedly. ‘But public funds exist to provide justice, and I repeat that my client cannot now receive a fair trial from a jury whose minds have been unfairly prejudiced by this witness. Twice in one afternoon!’ she added, almost as a personal accusation.

  Judge Gray raised a hand wearily to stop her. ‘Yes, yes, I understand your point fully, Mrs Newby, and it does you credit. I am also fully aware of the purpose of public funds.’ He paused for a moment, rubbing his thumb along his jaw and staring intently at an area just below her chin. Did her collar have a stain on it, she wondered anxiously? But no, of course not - it was merely another technique for humiliating people, putting them in their place. The judge cleared his throat and resumed.