Bold Counsel (The Trials of Sarah Newby) Page 6

  ‘I ... may have done, yes.’

  ‘May have done, or did?’

  ‘I believe I spoke to her once, yes.’

  ‘And was it very shortly after you spoke to her that she withdrew this charge?’

  ‘Mrs Newby ...’ The senior judge was leaning forward. Damn, Sarah thought, they’re not going to allow it. She turned away from the witness towards the bench.

  ‘My Lords, I believe the relevance of these questions is now clear. I seek to establish that my client has been affected by a conspiracy to affect the course of justice. It is my contention that the significance of this alleged confession in Jason Barnes’ trial should be wholly discounted on the grounds that his integrity as a witness was compromised by his role as police informer. As Inspector Baxter has testified, he was so valuable to the police that they were prepared to go to almost any lengths to protect him, including, it appears, putting pressure on a rape victim to withdraw her charge. My client believes that this was done to reward Brian Winnick for supplying the police with a false confession.’

  Long before she had finished speaking, Gareth Jones was on his feet beside her. ‘My Lords, I must protest ...’

  The senior judge waved him to silence. ‘No need, Mr Jones. Mrs Newby, this is a serious accusation. Do you have any evidence to back it up?’

  ‘Only this, my Lords. A week after she withdrew her accusation, the young woman, Julia Smith, committed suicide. She left this note, saying the police had let her down.’

  She produced four photocopies of a small, handwritten suicide note and passed them to the bench and Gareth Jones. The senior judge turned towards Robert Baxter and read it out.

  Sorry Mum, I can’t take it no more. No one believes me, not even the police. They’re all men together, aren’t they? He’s free now, and they’re following me in their cars, just like that Inspector said they would. It’s better like this, honest.

  Julie

  The court was silent for a moment. Then the judge asked Baxter: ‘Have you seen this before, Detective Superintendent?’

  ‘It was read out at the inquest, my lords. Medical evidence was offered that the young woman was suffering from a paranoid disorder. The verdict was that she took her own life while of unsound mind. The coroner expressly cleared the police of all misconduct. As Mrs Newby should know!’

  The last words were hissed directly at Sarah, with a venom quite uncommon in a police witness. The big man’s hands shook violently as he spoke.

  The judge turned to Sarah, frowning. ‘Is that true, Mrs Newby?’

  ‘I have a copy of the coroner’s remarks here, my lord.’ She fished the papers out from her bundle. ‘His actual words were: “although it is clear that Miss Smith harboured a deep sense of resentment against her alleged attacker and the police who investigated her complaint, it is impossible for this court to say whether her resentment was a product of her paranoid mental state or was grounded in fact. It is the strong desire of this and every law-abiding community that the police should investigate each crime impartially, and there has been no conclusive evidence produced before this court to suggest that in Miss Smith’s case, this was not done.”’ I submit, my lords, that the warning in the second sentence, combined with the use of the word conclusive, imply that there were, in fact, some doubts in the coroner’s own mind.’

  The judges studied her thoughtfully for a moment. Beside her, Gareth Jones spoke up.

  ‘My Lords, whilst I commend my learned colleague for her ingenuity, I believe we are straying very far from the remit of this court, which is to determine the safety or otherwise of the conviction of Jason Barnes. We are not here to cast unsubstantiated aspersions on the reputation of a retired - and I may add, much decorated - Detective Superintendent.’

  ‘No we bloody well aren’t.’ The words, shocking in their vindictiveness, came in a low growl from Robert Baxter. All eyes suddenly turned to where he stood, red-faced with anger. His liver-spotted hands gripped the sides of the lectern, and his powerful shoulders hunched as if at any moment he might rip the thing apart and advance on the object of his fury, the slim lady barrister who stood facing him coolly.

  Sarah may have looked cool, but she was trembling from her wig to her heels. This is it, she thought, this is the moment when they see that man for what he is. This is old style policing, the big men who got to the top by crushing everyone in their way. We all hoped it was only criminals who suffered, and often it was, but it could also be young girls who stood up to them and accused their precious informants of rape. Or it could be young thugs like my client, who probably did murder Brenda Stokes - only no one could find the body or bully him into admitting it, so what do they do? Smuggle their precious informant into his cell and get him to manufacture an entirely false confession in return for immunity from all other crimes. That’s what’s happened here, isn’t it?

  Perhaps.

  Certainly Robert Baxter’s display of fury was damaging him. Belatedly, he realised how his outburst had drawn all eyes his way. He drew a deep breath, and loosened his grip on the witness stand.

  The lady judge spoke for the first time. ‘I hope that wasn’t meant as a threat, Superintendent Baxter?’

  Baxter drew a second deep breath. ‘No, ma’am, of course not. But it comes a little hard at my age, to be wrongly accused of things that were settled so long ago in the past.’

  ‘Indeed, my lords,’ Gareth Jones cut in mellifluously. ‘Superintendent Baxter is well past retirement age after an extremely distinguished career. His health is not what it was. He should certainly not be treated as if he were on trial here.’

  ‘Quite.’ The senior judge glanced at the clock. ‘Eleven fifteen. I think perhaps this would be the ideal moment for a short recess. Shall we resume in fifteen minutes?’

  When the judges had retired Robert Baxter marched past Sarah without a word. Beside her, Gareth Jones turned to her with a wry smile.

  ‘For a first timer, you certainly set the place alight, don’t you, Mrs Newby? Are your cases always like this?’

  Sarah was feeling slightly sick as the adrenalin ebbed away. I’ve got to stop doing this, she thought, I’ll make myself ill. With an effort, she summoned up what she hoped was an appropriate grin.

  ‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘Sometimes it’s really dramatic.’

  9. Afternoon in Court

  AS THE day wore on Sarah began to feel better. Last night’s emotional turmoil was forgotten - her energies were wholly focussed on the battle in court. Part of it was pure fear. It would be easy to be humiliated in such august company. Gareth Jones was an eloquent, experienced advocate. His arguments were detailed and precise, sending the lawyers and judges on scavenger hunts through learned tomes, and technical discussions which the senior judge in particular clearly enjoyed. Sarah was no more than an average legal scholar, and more than once she felt a sense of rising panic as she floundered to keep up. Nevertheless, she won the first round. Shortly after lunch, the judges agreed to hear Mr Crosse, Brian Winnick’s solicitor.

  Mr Crosse was a drab, earnest solicitor in his mid fifties. He wore a dark suit, rimless glasses, and the regimental tie of the Royal Engineers, which he had served in as a young man. Sarah led him through a series of questions to establish his credibility; he was chairman of his local parish council, and a senior partner in a firm of criminal solicitors. He had known Brian Winnick for ten years, and represented him in court several times. He had last seen him in St James’s hospital in Leeds.

  ‘Was he very ill when you saw him?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘He was, yes. He had difficulty breathing, and was hooked up to an oxygen cylinder.’

  ‘What was the nature of his illness?’

  ‘He had lung cancer. It was terminal. The doctors had told him he had just a few weeks to live.’

  ‘What was his state of mind at the time?’

  ‘He was quite lucid. Perfectly clear in his head, no doubt about that. But he was in a serious frame of mind, as you’d expect.
That’s what he’d asked to see me about. He wanted to make a statement about all the lies he’d told in the past.’

  ‘And what was his motive for this?’

  ‘Remorse, I think. He’d just been received into the Catholic church. There was a priest at his bedside shortly before I arrived.’

  This comment seemed to impress the judges. They asked a number of questions, to ensure that the priest had had no hand in the actual phrasing of the statement. Then Sarah led him through the details of what Brian Winnick had said, and the notes Mr Crosse had made of their conversation.

  ‘He told me that the evidence he gave in the trial of Jason Barnes was a lie. Mr Barnes did not tell him he had murdered Brenda Stokes. Mr Winnick made that up, and lied about it to the police, he said.’

  ‘Did he tell you why he’d done that?’

  ‘To get a reduced sentence, he said. He was charged with drug dealing, and hoped the police would drop those charges if he helped them convict Jason Barnes.’

  ‘Did he say which police officer promised to do that?’

  ‘That ... he didn’t say.’ Mr Crosse hesitated, glancing nervously across the court at the two detectives who sat glowering at him. ‘I don’t think he mentioned names.’

  ‘Very well.’ Sarah moved swiftly on, but when she had finished and Gareth Jones rose to cross-examine, he returned immediately to this point.

  ‘You’re an experienced solicitor, Mr Crosse. You understand the importance of getting a statement as clear as it can possibly be. So why didn’t you ask your client? Which officer was it who made him such a promise?’

  ‘I suppose ... I was too surprised by the nature of the details he was telling me. And then, he was very weak. I didn’t want to put him under too much strain.’

  ‘It was difficult for him to speak, was it?’

  ‘Yes. There were long pauses. At times he closed his eyes and seemed to sleep.’

  ‘I see.’ Gareth Jones paused. ‘Mr Crosse, you’ve told this court you believed Mr Winnick was of sound mind, even though he was dying and needed oxygen. Did you get medical evidence from a doctor to support this belief?’

  ‘I ... no, I didn’t. I did consider it but there was no one around at the time. The doctors were all very busy.’

  ‘I see. As a layman, Mr Crosse, do you accept that when a dying person has difficulty breathing, their brain may become starved of oxygen? In which case their grasp on reality may be somewhat limited?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m not medically qualified.’

  ‘Quite. So your opinion, that Mr Winnick was of sound mind and telling the truth, rather than indulging in a fantasy, is just an opinion, isn’t it? You have no medical basis for saying that?’

  ‘No medical basis, no. Just thirty years professional experience of interviewing clients.’

  ‘Many of whom lie, no doubt.’

  ‘Of course. I believe Mr Winnick was telling the truth.’

  ‘But you didn’t administer an oath?’

  ‘No. I intended to do that when I returned, with the statement typed up for him to sign. Unfortunately he died before that was possible.’

  It was an incisive performance, inflicting maximum damage on Sarah’s principal witness. As they adjourned for lunch, she wondered if she might have more time in Cambridge with Emily than she had anticipated.

  As court resumed after lunch, the senior judge looked down at the barristers.

  ‘Very well, we have heard Mr Crosse, and have come to a decision. This court is prepared to consider the notes of his conversation with Brian Winnick in the appeal. But before we hear argument on what weight to attach to it, do you have any other evidence you wish us to consider?’

  Hugely relieved, Sarah rose to her feet once again. The first hurdle had been cleared. She might be only a junior barrister from the north east, but she had won a point, at least, in the Court of Criminal Appeal. She addressed the judges, half-aware as she did so of a background of bitter whispering from the two detectives.

  ‘Yes, my Lords. The second major point of Mr Barnes’s appeal concerns the evidence of Amanda Carr. As your Lordships will know, Ms Carr was a student nurse at Naburn Maternity Hospital at the time of the original trial. As soon as she read about the case in the local press, she went voluntarily to the police to make a statement. She had seen a young woman answering Brenda Stokes’ description on the road outside the hospital at four a.m. that night, she said. This evidence was available to Superintendent Baxter...’ She glanced coolly at the elderly detective. ‘... but was never used in trial or disclosed to the defence. My Lords, I submit that this was a serious abuse of process. Had the defence been aware of this evidence, they could not have failed to use it to establish reasonable doubt. My Lords, Ms Carr has been troubled by this matter ever since. Her memory of that night remains clear, and she is here in court today.’

  The judges turned to her opponent. Gareth Jones rose swiftly.

  ‘My Lords, I strongly oppose my learned friend’s submission. Your Lordships will be aware, as she is, that this matter was raised at a previous court of appeal. On that occasion their Lordships concluded that it was not possible to say that it would have created reasonable doubt in the minds of the jury, as Mrs Newby contends. In view of this prior judgement, My Lords, I submit that it is unnecessary to consider this evidence once again.’

  Sarah had expected this. She had read the details of the previous appeal at four o’clock that morning. As he sat down, she rose to her feet.

  ‘My Lords, my learned colleague omits a crucial point of their Lordships’ previous judgement. Let me refer you to paragraph 12. What their Lordships actually said was that they were not convinced that Ms Carr’s evidence on its own would have been sufficient to create reasonable doubt in the minds of the jury. My Lords, those three words on its own are crucial. My client’s appeal today does not rely on Ms Carr’s evidence alone. We seek to combine it with the statement of Brian Winnick, as well as three minor points which I also intend to lay before your Lordships. It is my client’s contention that these five points taken together are more than sufficient to persuade you that he has, for the past eighteen years, suffered a serious miscarriage of justice.’

  The judges took several minutes to consider. Then, to Sarah’s relief, the senior judge said: ‘Very well, Mrs Newby. We are prepared to hear from Amanda Carr.’

  Amanda Carr was a small round cheery woman in her early forties. Her evidence was brief, clear, and helpful. Eighteen years ago she’d been a student nurse at Naburn Maternity Hospital outside York. Driving home from a hospital party she’d passed a young woman wandering along a country road. The young woman had been wearing a schoolgirl outfit, but looked too old to be a schoolgirl, so Amanda assumed it was fancy dress. It was only a few days later, when she read of the disappearance of Brenda Stokes, that she went to the police and made a statement. But to her surprise, she was never called to give evidence.

  Gareth Jones stood to cross-examine her. His manner, as Sarah had expected, was very polite, gentle, and charming.

  ‘Mrs Carr, this is very public-spirited of you. This matter still troubles you today, does it?’

  ‘Yes, it does. If only I’d stopped to offer that girl a lift, she might still be alive today.’

  ‘Naturally, a very troubling thought. You’re assuming, of course, that it was Brenda Stokes who you saw.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’d never met the girl in my life. But the person I saw matched the description in the newspapers. Almost exactly.’

  ‘Yes, I see. Did you think of stopping to offer her a lift?’

  ‘No. I wish I had now, but it just didn’t enter my head.’

  ‘You were coming home from a party at the hospital, were you?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘About four in the morning, you say?’

  ‘About that time, yes. It was quarter past four when I got home. I remember that; my mother was waiting up, and she made a big fuss about that.’


  Gareth Jones smiled. ‘I’m a lawyer, as you see, but I went to a few parties with nurses when I was younger. Pretty lively affairs, as I recall. Were yours like that?’

  ‘We had a lot of fun, yes.’

  ‘Quite a lot to drink?’

  ‘Yes, probably.’

  ‘Mrs Carr, I’m not here to be awkward or score petty points. We’re here to find the truth, all of us. But, purely in the interests of truth, would it be fair to say that when you were driving home from that party eighteen years ago, you might possibly have had rather more to drink than you or I would consider safe to drive on today?’

  Amanda considered the point seriously. ‘Was I drunk, you mean?’

  The old rogue, he’s charmed her, Sarah thought. Cunning move.

  ‘Well, yes. I mean, don’t worry, nobody’s accusing you of drink driving or anything like that. Things were different then, after all. And we’ve all been young once.’

  ‘Yes, well, it’s possible, I suppose. But I wouldn’t say drunk. I could still drive the car ok. I must have done, I got home.’

  ‘Yes, but my point is, when we’re drunk, you know, our perceptions aren’t as clear as when we’re sober. We make mistakes. And you only saw this girl for a few seconds, didn’t you, in your headlights? So what I’m suggesting, you see, is perhaps you did see someone, and thought nothing of it. Then a few days later when you read this description in the paper, your mind played a trick on you, and you imagined the person you saw looked like Brenda Stokes. Whereas it wasn’t really her at all.’

  Amanda frowned. ‘Well, I never said it was Brenda, did I? But did I see a girl in a schoolgirl outfit? Yes. Did she have long dark hair, as it said in the newspapers? Yes, I think so. I can see her now in my mind’s eye. I wasn’t that drunk, Mr Jones.’

  Gareth Jones bowed to her slightly, and sat down.