‘Which there’s every likelihood of Pullinger deciding from my calling so many witnesses,’ concluded Beckwith.
‘What about Alyce?’ questioned Jordan, intentionally switching the discussion.
‘Bob told me she can hardly wait to confront Appleton in court.’
‘Let’s hope she’s not disappointed.’
‘Let’s hope none of us is disappointed,’ said the lawyer, heavily. ‘When are you getting back?’
‘The plane’s scheduled for three tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Let’s meet in the bar at six.’
The plane was on time, which gave Jordan more than an hour to move that day’s tranche of money into his banks, as well as again checking through the financial control and monitoring division to ensure he remained undetected.
Jordan was in the bar, waiting, when Beckwith arrived, in jeans, workshirt and cowboy boots. The lawyer ordered a martini – ‘because I think we’ve got cause for a celebration’ – and led Jordan to a table out of the hearing of anyone else in the room.
George Abrahams had re-arranged his diary and was arriving on the first Wednesday morning flight, the lawyer reported; a room had been reserved for Abrahams at their hotel for the Wednesday night as a precaution against the submission not being completed in one day. There had also been further telephone calls from the lawyers representing Appleton and Leanne confirming their attendance but without any indication whether their venerealogists would accompany them. If they didn’t, Beckwith said, he might apply for an adjournment, depending upon how his application went, primarily – although it was essential he cross-examine both specialists – to irritate Judge Pullinger at the other side’s prevarication. He’d arranged with court officials – as Reid had for Alyce – for them both to enter the court precincts through back access points, hopefully to prevent them being pictured by the expected TV cameramen and media photographers: there’d been several telephone approaches during the day from New York and local journalists, even though, as Beckwith’s application was pre-trial, it was automatically to be heard in camera. That would give him the opportunity to pressure the other side with unspecified challenges and potential revelations into applying for the eventual full hearing to be private. Reid was attending, as was his legal right, as an observing attorney because Alyce was listed as a witness, and in any case intended applying for a closed court if the submission wasn’t made on behalf of either Appleton or Leanne.
‘I think we’ve got them running scared,’ said Beckwith. ‘I can’t remember a lot of times when I could have dropped everything to confront an unspecified, out-of-town court challenge like the other side’s lawyers have done here. Neither can Bob.’
‘You’re talking lawyers appearing,’ said Jordan. ‘What about Appleton and Leanne being here personally?’
‘We won’t know that until tomorrow, when the court convenes. If either were my clients I’d keep them away.’
‘Could you call them, as witnesses, if they do turn up?’
‘I haven’t officially listed them. If they do show I could apply for Pullinger’s discretion. Which I might well do, even on a minor point. There’d obviously and very definitely be a legal argument which I’m sure I could use to move Pullinger into our favour.’
‘What are our chances of a complete dismissal?’ demanded Jordan, bluntly.
‘I’ve been through this with Bob,’ said Beckwith.
‘I want you to go through it with me!’
‘Slightly less than fifty percent. Which, as a gambler, you’ve got to accept as pretty good odds.’
For the briefest of seconds Jordan was disorientated by the reminder of how he was supposed to make his living. ‘I try for better.’
‘I can’t offer you anything better.’
It was a desultory dinner between two people brought together beneath the same roof who had already talked out all there was to discuss, each striving for conversation until the very end, when Beckwith suddenly said, ‘To use an expression that you’re more familiar with than me, we could be on the home straight here. I don’t want any surprises, OK?’
‘What’s that mean?’ demanded Jordan, genuinely bewildered.
‘You haven’t had any contact with Alyce, not since that night in New York?’
‘You know I haven’t.’
‘I don’t know you haven’t. That’s why I’m asking you.’
‘I haven’t.’
‘Not even by telephone.’
‘No.’
‘You’ll be on a witness stand tomorrow, on oath. I don’t want any outbursts.’
‘If there was going to be an outburst – if I didn’t have the anger locked away – I’d have already shouted you down for what you’ve just asked me about Alyce.’
‘Bob thinks you’re carrying a torch for her.’
‘After the mess she’s got me into! You’ve got to be joking! Bob Reid’s talking through his ass.’
‘There’s too much in what you’ve just said for me to handle all at one time,’ ended Beckwith, getting up from the table. ‘Breakfast tomorrow at eight, OK?’
Twenty-One
Having steadfastly and successfully avoided any criminal proceedings so far in his life, Harvey Jordan had prepared himself for an understandable uncertainty at actually entering a court for the first time and was pleased – as well as relieved – that none came. On their way from the hotel Beckwith had talked expansively of courts being theatres in which people – lawyers particularly – performed but that wasn’t Jordan’s most positive impression, although he conceded that there could be some comparisons. There was certainly a formidable cast being assembled, their fixed expressions befitting impending drama.
As the appellants on that initial day, Jordan and his lawyer had the first table to the left of the court, just inside the separating rail. Directly behind that rail, in the public section, was George Abrahams, with whom Beckwith was at that moment hunched in head-bent, muttered conversation. The width of the entry gate through the rail separated Jordan from the position of Alfred Appleton and his lawyer, David Bartle. Beyond them, at another table, were Leanne Jefferies and Peter Wolfson. Behind the rail, on the right of the court, were a group of motionless, silent people among whom Jordan presumed to be the Boston venerealogists. Half turned in their direction as he was Jordan was instantly aware of the entry into the court of Alyce, Reid attentively at her arm. Alyce wore a neutral coloured, tailored suit and very little make-up and came through the court and the final gate looking directly ahead, to take her place at the separate table beside Jordan’s, on the far left of the court. As she finally sat Alyce looked at Jordan. But not as far as the opposite side of the court to her husband and his lover. Jordan smiled. Alyce didn’t, turning away.
Reid leaned towards Jordan and said, ‘You get in OK, avoiding the photographers?’
‘I think so. You?’
‘I’m sure we did.’
‘Alyce OK?’
‘It’s the first time she’s been near Appleton since it all began. She’s a mess.’
‘Tell her it’s OK.’ What on earth did that mean? Jordan wondered, as he said it. Alyce looked very pale.
‘I have already. She thought she’d be all right. She’s not.’
Beckwith returned through the gate and asked Jordan, ‘What was that about?’
‘Alyce is nervous.’
‘So am I,’ said Beckwith, jerking his head back towards the public area. ‘We’ve got a hell of a point to make. Choosing the moment to make it is the problem.’
‘What the…? started Jordan, to be overridden by the loudly demanded, ‘All rise!’
If this were theatre then Judge Hubert Pullinger was already wearing his costume for the role, thought Jordan, as the man upon whom so much depended entered the court. Pullinger’s raven-black gown hung shapelessly around a stick-thin, desiccated frame, an appearance denied by the scurrying quickness of his movements. The head came forward, though, when he sat, reminding Jordan of a carnivorous hunting bird, complete with the disease-whitened face Jordan remembered from a television documentary on vultures, ripped off flesh hanging from its beak. Halfway through the court clerk’s official litany identifying the hearing there was an impatient, head twitch towards Beckwith, an appropriately bird-like pecking gesture.