Mr Justice Whittaker took his place in the high-backed leather chair at the centre of the dais, rearranged his long, red gown and adjusted his ancient wig which, like a Test cricketer’s cap, gave an indication of how many matches he’d played.
He looked down at counsels’ bench, all too aware that the next of his prejudices would be more difficult to hide.
He admired Sir Julian Warwick, both as an advocate and a fellow bencher. A man who would do everything in his power to win a case without ever overstepping the mark.
Mr Booth Watson, on the other hand, didn’t know where the mark was. His only interest was to win at any cost, and the judge already feared that, as the trial progressed, defence counsel would test his patience to its limit. However, he was determined not to be provoked. Over the years Booth Watson had somehow managed to escape the full wrath of the Bar Council, which had shown him several yellow cards, but never a red one. But surely even he must accept it would take a miracle to prevent his client from ending up in jail.
The judge turned his attention to the jury, and gave them a beneficent smile. It was important they believed he was being neutral at all times, because he knew if there was one thing a jury couldn’t abide, it was the feeling that a judge had made up his mind even before the trial had begun.
He glanced across at the seven men and five women who would decide Assem Rashidi’s fate, paying particular attention to the man they had selected as their foreman. He sat bolt upright, giving the impression of being a professional man who might have worked in the Square Mile. He looked as if he was a firm believer in the rule of law and, equally important, that he was well aware this could be among the most important decisions he would make in his life, and of the need to carry the rest of the jury with him.
‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,’ said the judge. ‘Before proceedings begin, I feel I should alert you to an anomaly concerning this particular case...’
All twelve jurors’ eyes were fixed on the judge.
‘The Crown will be represented on this occasion by Sir Julian Warwick QC while his daughter, Miss Grace Warwick, will act as his junior. That in itself is not unusual. However, Sir Julian’s son, Detective Inspector William Warwick, might at some point be called on to appear as a Crown witness. I therefore took it upon myself to ask Mr Booth Watson if he had any objection to this arrangement, and he assured me he did not. But given the circumstances, I would like him to confirm that in your presence.’
Booth Watson rose slowly from his place, and with what passed as a smile said, ‘I have no objection, m’lud; in fact, I welcome it.’
The expression on the Crown prosecutor’s face revealed nothing but Sir Julian had to admit Booth Watson had won the opening round before the bell had been struck.
The judge turned his attention back to Sir Julian, who was waiting patiently to begin proceedings. His small wooden lectern had been set up, with his opening statement in place. He glanced across at Booth Watson, who was seated at the other end of counsels’ bench, picking his nails, displaying an air of nonchalant indifference to all that was happening around him.
The clerk of the court rose from his place and faced the dock.
‘Will the defendant please rise,’ he said portentously.
Rashidi stood up. Dressed in a bespoke suit, white shirt and blue silk tie, he looked every bit the chairman of a City company who wouldn’t know where Brixton was.
‘On the first charge, the production of a controlled drug, how do you plead?
‘Not guilty.’
‘And on the second charge, possession of a controlled drug with intent to supply, how do you plead?’
‘Not guilty,’ repeated the defendant.
‘And on the third charge, possession of a controlled drug, how do you plead?’
‘Not guilty.’
The judge waited for the court to settle before he said, ‘Sir Julian, would you begin proceedings by delivering your opening statement?’
‘Thank you, m’lud,’ said the Crown’s advocate. He rose slowly from his place, gave the judge a bow, and looked down at the first page of his script, which he knew almost by heart.
‘M’lud, members of the jury,’ he began, ‘I appear before you today on behalf of the Crown, while my learned friend Mr Booth Watson QC represents the defendant.’ He barely gave his adversary a glance, and certainly not a bow.
‘I open the Crown’s submission by telling you that in all my years at the Bar...’
The jury listened attentively to Sir Julian’s every word, as jurors always do on the first day of any trial. The judge could tell already that the Crown’s senior silk was on particularly good form, and his concluding remarks would have left no one in doubt about what he believed the verdict must surely be.
‘You and you alone,’ Sir Julian proclaimed, staring directly at the jury, ‘will decide the fate of the man standing in the dock. After you’ve considered all the evidence in this case, I want you to imagine that it’s your own child who has suffered at the hands of this unscrupulous man.’
The judge gave an involuntary shudder, which he hoped no one noticed.
‘The world would undoubtedly be a better place if Assem Rashidi had not been born. You now have it in your power to ensure he can never again ruin the lives of the young, the vulnerable and the helpless in our society. Your own child,’ he repeated, his eyes never leaving the jury.
By the time Sir Julian resumed his seat, the jury looked as if they would have been happy to bring back the death penalty, while the journalists scurried out of the court to give their editors tomorrow’s headline, YOUR OWN CHILD, aware that anything said in court could be printed in block capitals without any fear of libel proceedings.
‘Thank you, Sir Julian,’ said the judge. ‘You may call your first witness.’
‘But does he know that we know he knows?’ asked the commander.
‘I don’t think so, sir,’ said Rebecca, ‘because we both followed the wrong man out of the cathedral, and ended up at the Goring Hotel. So neither one of us has any idea what Marlboro Man looks like.’
‘Let’s keep it that way,’ said the Hawk.
‘But why does Lamont need to know who MM is?’ asked Paul. ‘That’s the real mystery.’
‘My bet,’ said Jackie, ‘is that he suspects he’s still under surveillance, after some money went missing following the three-bags-full incident.’
‘Every penny was returned,’ said the Hawk abruptly.
‘Or perhaps he wants to get in touch with MM for some reason we don’t know about?’ suggested Rebecca.
‘Not much point second-guessing,’ said the Hawk. ‘For now, DC Pankhurst, continue to keep Lamont under close surveillance, but if you suspect even for a second that he’s sussed you, disappear, because the moment that happens we’ll have to replace you.’
‘Understood,’ said Rebecca.
‘And what about you, PC Bailey?’ asked the Hawk. ‘Have you anything worthwhile to report?’
‘Not a lot,’ admitted Nicky. ‘I’ve at last had a face-to-face meeting with Summers, but I can’t pretend it went well.’
‘Bide your time,’ said Paul, ‘and he’ll eventually show his true colours. Have you been able to check up on any of his more recent investigations?’
‘Yes, and they’re pretty impressive. He’s made a number of arrests over the past year for drug offences, burglary, and one for GBH when he clearly showed a lot of courage. He’s admired by his colleagues even if he’s not particularly liked.’