‘My place is a bit of a tip at the moment …’
‘I don’t mind. I could help you to clear it up.’
‘Not your scene really is it, mum? You’ve got books to read, pillocks to defend. I’ll see you around.’
She sighed. ‘All right then. Any time, Simon, really. Just drop round.’
‘Yes.’ Living near each other in the same city, separated by emotion rather than distance, they had never really solved the issue of whether to kiss or embrace at parting. Other people seemed to manage it well but they were not a family who touched much. So now she just gave him her hand. ‘See you then.’
‘I’m coming to watch, remember?’ Trying to make amends, he drew her to him briefly and kissed the top of her head as though she were a child. Then, going up the steps past Julian Lloyd-Davies who stood watching with his junior, Simon said loudly: ‘I’ll be in’t gallery then, mum. Ready to gob on’t pillock’s head if he interrupts again!’
Chapter Seven
When Sarah entered court everyone else apart from the judge was already in their places. Hurriedly, she poured herself a glass of water, and scanned the questions on her pad.
‘All stand!’ the clerk called, and everyone rose. Judge Gray entered, bowed, and sat down. Everyone except Sarah resumed their seats. Despite her hurried entry she felt quite calm, clear in her mind about what she had to do.
‘Now, Ms Gilbert, you say you met Mr Harker at a party at the Royal Station Hotel on Saturday 14th October. What time did you arrive?’
‘About eight, eight thirty, I suppose.’
‘And you left just before midnight, you said?’
‘Yes. I had to get home because of the kids.’
‘Yes. Your little girl was ill, I think you said. So you stayed at this party for what? Three hours? Four?’ Sarah glanced at the jury, hoping they would take the point about Sharon’s standard of child care.
‘About that, yeah.’
‘I see. And while you were there, what did you drink?’
‘Vodka and lime. That’s what I usually have.’
‘That’s the only thing you drink, is it?’
‘Usually, yes. Sometimes a glass of wine or a gin.’
‘All right. So you went to this party to enjoy yourself, and you were there for three or four hours. Think back, Ms Gilbert. So how many vodka and limes did you have in the course of the evening? One? Three? Five? Ten?’
Up to this point Sarah had met Sharon’s eyes as she questioned her, but now she looked away, at a point on the wall about a yard to Sharon’s right and above her head. It was a technique she had learned from other barristers — at crucial points look away, break eye contact. It keeps your mind clear to focus on the most precise, awkward questions while at the same time leaving the witness floundering, unable to enlist your sympathy with body language. It’s a sort of calculated insult, too — it shows the jury you’re in charge, that you’re listening to the answers but don’t necessarily trust the person who is giving them.
‘About … four, five perhaps.’
‘All right. Four or five vodkas with lime. What about gin? You drink that sometimes.’
‘Yeah, Gary bought me one. Trying to make up to me, I guess.’
‘All right. So you had four or five vodkas, and a gin. A double gin, was it?’
‘Yes.’
‘All right. So it was a good party and you had quite a lot to drink.’ Sarah looked pointedly at the jury. ‘Nothing wrong with that, but it all adds up to … what? Maybe eight units of alcohol altogether. And for the sake of comparison, an average woman exceeds the drink drive limit after three or four units, so you were well over that. Were you drunk, Ms Gilbert?’
‘Drunk? No. A bit merry, perhaps.’ Sharon was looking flushed now, annoyed. ‘I’m never drunk. I can’t be, can I, with the kids?’
‘Never drunk. So you feel you were in a perfectly fit state to look after your children, one of whom was ill. Is that right?’
‘Yes, of course I was! All I had to do was give them a bit of a cuddle and put ‘em to bed! Anyway, so what? I’m not here because of my kids, I’m here because that man raped me!’
‘Well, that’s exactly the point I’m coming to, Ms Gilbert. You see, we’ve already established that it would be very difficult for you to positively identify a man who broke into your house with a hood over his face, when you were naturally very frightened — terrified — and the man only spoke a few words through his hood. Now when I asked you about that this morning, I imagine the jury assumed you were sober; but you weren’t, were you? You were not only terrified out of your wits — as you had every right to be — you were drunk!’
‘No I bloody well wasn’t! I just had a few drinks at a party. What’s wrong with that?’
Sarah faced the jury, hoping to appeal to their common sense. She studied them carefully — a frowning middle-class woman in her fifties, a young man in a suit, a vacant young woman in a fluffy pink cardigan, a heavy-set man in a leather jacket, resting his chin in his hand.
‘You had consumed eight units of alcohol, Ms Gilbert. Do you know why people are prohibited from driving with that amount in their blood? It’s because their ability to react correctly, and perceive accurately what is going on around them, is seriously impaired. But you had drunk twice the permitted driving level, Ms Gilbert! Twice as much! It’s a simple medical fact — everything was a blur to you that night, wasn’t it?’
‘No!’
‘Yes, Ms Gilbert.’ To her delight Sarah saw the man in the leather jacket and the middle-aged woman nod in agreement. ‘Let me put it simply. It’s hard enough for anyone to identify a man with a hood over his face when they’re sober, but you weren’t sober, you were drunk. So you were in no state whatsoever to identify a man whose face you never even saw!’
‘Yes I bloody well was! It was him — Gary Harker! He broke in and raped me, damn you — how would you like it!’
I wouldn’t like it at all, Sarah thought. I’d be scared witless and it might ruin my life for ever. She noticed accusing frowns from two jury women who were probably thinking the same. Be careful, she thought. This is a battle for the jury’s sympathy as well as to establish the facts. She kept her voice calm and reasonable.
‘Please understand me, Ms Gilbert. I’m not suggesting for a second that you weren’t raped. What I am suggesting is that you were far too drunk to be sure that the man who raped you was Gary Harker. It could have been somebody else, you see, not Gary at all!’
‘No. It was Gary,’ Sharon insisted stubbornly.
‘All right then.’ Sarah sighed, and began a new tack. ‘Let’s go back to the party at the hotel where you met Gary earlier. What sort of things did you talk about?’
‘This and that. Where he was living, jobs he’d had. Whether he’d been in jail again.’ Sharon brought this last remark out with vindictive spite, no doubt remembering the effect her reference to Gary’s record had had yesterday.
It was a good hit, but Sarah moved quickly on. ‘He asked about his watch, didn’t he?’
‘Yeah. He said he knew where I kept it, it was in my bottom drawer with all my rings and things, and if I didn’t give it back he was going to get it himself.’
‘All right, Ms Gilbert. Now I want you to think carefully.’ Sarah thought carefully herself. The next point had to be built up step by step if it was to work. For the next few questions Sarah carefully established that the hotel had been crowded, and yes, Sharon and Gary had argued quite loudly enough about the watch for other people to overhear them talking about the watch and where it was kept. And after all, she had had this watch for six months, a man’s watch, not one she would wear herself. Had she shown it to a few friends, perhaps, men who might be interested in buying it? Sharon shrugged, not seeing the relevance.
‘I may have shown it to a few people, perhaps. So what?’
Sarah smiled inwardly. ‘The point I am putting to you, Ms Gilbert, is that plenty of people other than Gary must have known that you kept that watch in your bottom drawer. So even if the rapist did go straight to your bottom drawer, that doesn’t prove it was Gary, does it?’