‘Oh yes? Like one of us is on the side of the Devil and the other on the side of the Angels?’
‘You really need to calm down, Meg. Focus. Think just one thing. You want to see Laura again, don’t you?’
She said nothing.
After some moments, he went on. ‘Of course you do, she’s all the family you have left in the world. How would your life be without her? With her dead, like your husband and son? Think about it, Meg. Think what it would be like to go to the airport and sign a receipt for little Laura in a coffin. Go on, think really hard. What kind of wood would you choose for it? What lining inside? Brass handles?’
‘Stop it,’ she blurted, choked. ‘Please stop.’
‘Meg, you know what you have to do. We are very aware some of your fellow jurors could be a problem, but don’t worry about them — we’ll do what we can to take care of it.’
The line went dead.
48
Monday 13 May
At 7 p.m., in the Hoxton office, computer programmer Rio Zambrano, former Met detective Paul Constantinidi and Gready’s solicitor, Nick Fox, sat at the conference table with the large computer monitor on the wall in front of them displaying an image of Hugo Pink.
‘OK, guys, we got to first base,’ Fox said. ‘This gentleman was only too happy to take our offer to help him out of his financial hole. What he said in the jury room today has worked. So now we need to turn our focus on the other potential problem jurors — and witnesses. Let’s start with the jurors.’
He clicked a button on his mouse and the image changed to the silver-haired man in his sixties.
‘Mike Roberts,’ Fox said. ‘Retired former Detective Superintendent with Hampshire Police. All we really know about him is that he was forced to take early retirement. There’s a good chance he’s bitter about that, but we need more information on him — I’m working on it.’
He clicked the mouse again. A photograph appeared of a slender man with rimless glasses, his fair hair fashionably styled. Moments later, more images of him came onto the screen in sequence, and then a Wikipedia entry.
Toby DeWinter, 31, Actor. Married to Michael — né Davenport.
‘What do we know about him, Nick?’ Paul Constantinidi asked.
‘Gay, left wing, LGBT+ activist, very involved in Brighton Pride. Intellectual. Couldn’t call which way he would decide. But he might take the side of the underdog.’
Constantinidi nodded. ‘I’ll see if I can dig up anything on him.’
Both men grinned. Rio Zambrano, getting their gist, grinned also.
Next up was tight-faced Maisy Waller, with a silver cross on a chain around her neck.
‘Single,’ Constantinidi said. ‘Attends a High Anglican church. Lives with her elderly mother incapacitated with dementia. A good Christian, she’s a likely forgiveness merchant. “Not guilty” should be an easy win.’
They carried on through the list of jurors.
The one that all three agreed was another potential problem was the horsey woman, Gwendoline Smythson, who, from the sound relayed back to them via the bug implanted in Meg Magellan’s burner phone, had already decided Gready was guilty from the prosecution’s opening statement.
What they needed to be wary of, Nick Fox cautioned the two men, was getting a hung jury. They needed an out-and-out ‘not guilty’ verdict on each count. Anything less could result in a retrial. Which meant it was going to be down to Meg Magellan’s powers of persuasion, along with any influence they could bring on dissenting jurors.
She would have her work cut out. And Fox knew very well, from his reading of the disclosure documents, that some of the evidence against Gready was extremely damning. Therein lay the big difference between having a jury trial and not. Judges wanted facts; juries wanted to listen to stories. Winning or losing a case was in large part a question of who told the jury the best story, the prosecution counsel or the defence. They could not take the risk of this trial ending up in front of a judge, solo. Absolute care was needed. And he had found generally throughout his career that if you wanted someone silent, the next best thing to killing them was to frighten them — frighten them like they’d never known fear before.
When they had finished identifying the potential problem jurors, Nick Fox next looked at the witnesses who would be presenting evidence for the prosecution. Several would be a problem. There were a number of ‘expert witnesses’ — people with the credentials to be an acknowledged authority in their field. He had read all of their statements. And the facts supporting them.
And the witness they were about to hear was going to be Meg Magellan’s first big challenge.
49
Tuesday 14 May
The judge entered and everyone remained standing until he was seated. Then Stephen Cork stood, his collar and bands looking freshly laundered and crisply white against the black of his gown. He was a picture of elegance. The jury entered the court and took their seats.
‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, yesterday I outlined the Crown case to you in broad terms. I will remind you of one key fact, which is that the defendant, Terence Gready, has strenuously denied knowing — or indeed ever in his life meeting — a gentleman by the name of Michael Starr. I will remind you also that Michael Starr was the driver of the vehicle and trailer transporting the fake Ferrari car in which was found six million pounds’ worth of the Class-A drug, cocaine. Please do remember this very important thing. Terence Gready has denied ever meeting Mr Starr.’
Cork engaged friendly eye contact with members of the jury, before continuing. ‘It is now my task to bring out the evidence for you to consider. Can we please call my first witness, Ray Parker.’
An usher brought in a man in his sixties, holding a thick folder.
Meg watched him with interest, thinking he looked uncomfortable in his suit and white shirt. His tie was too short, as were his trousers. He looked like a man who had dressed up for the occasion because he felt he ought to but would have been happier in jeans and a T-shirt.
‘Please say your name,’ asked the clerk.
He said loudly, but falteringly, ‘Raymond Parker.’
‘Will you take the oath or an affirmation?’
The man blushed, beads of perspiration popping on his brow. He looked like he was out of his comfort zone in every way. Instead of addressing the clerk, he looked up at the judge in answer. ‘Affirmation, please, My Lord — I mean, Your Honour.’
Jupp smiled. The clerk handed him a card.
In a gruff voice, Ray Parker read the words on it. ‘I solemnly and sincerely declare and affirm that the evidence I shall give will be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.’
Jupp turned to the prosecutor. ‘Please proceed with your witness.’
‘Thank you, Your Honour.’ In a calm, measured voice, Cork asked, ‘Can you give your name and occupation to the jury, please?’
‘Raymond Parker. I work for the Sussex Police Digital Forensics Unit.’
Meg felt for the man. He was clearly a back-room boffin. The sort of person who was not comfortable talking to strangers — especially not under this kind of close scrutiny.
Cork responded. ‘So, you have worked there for three years, and prior to that you were employed for eleven years in British Telecom’s Digital Forensics Department, liaising with police forces around England, with your speciality being what is termed cell-site analysis, is that right?’
‘It is, yes.’
‘And in addition are you also an expert in identifying the location of mobile phones through their connectivity with local Wi-Fi installations?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You are in fact an expert witness in such matters?’