Court Out (23 page)

“Fuck! She pinched me!” The procession stops and I’m pushed against the wall.

“We gave you the benefit of the doubt,” says one of the officers and turns me round so my face is pressed against the wallpaper. My hands are both twisted painfully behind my back and I feel a cold pressure on my wrists followed by a clicking noise. I’m pulled back into the corridor and forced forwards from behind. My eyes are stinging and there is no way I can rub them now. I blink frantically and try to speak.

“I was trying to pinch myself!” I sob, “I thought this was a nightmare.” Both men ignore me and we continue down the corridor. We stop at a plain door and the first officer opens it. To my absolute horror, I realise with a start that they’ve taken me back into our courtroom. My eyes focus through the tears and I can make out the people in front of me. There’s Serena, her mouth a perfect ‘O’ shape, Lucinda is gawping at me from the public gallery, the court staff are all watching me too.

The public gallery is full and the silence is deafening as they watch my movements. I’m taken out of the front exit of the court building too and the press have an absolute field day when they see a fully robed barrister being escorted away in handcuffs. They all start shouting as soon as we get near them.

“Miss Chase, what’s happening?”

“Officers why is she being arrested?”

“What’s she done?”

For a God awful moment I think the police are going to stop and tell them but they walk me down the steps and bundle me into the back of a waiting police car.

“Where, where are we going?” I ask.

After a pause, the officer next to me speaks.

“Carlode Lane. It’s only around the corner.”

My stomach sinks even further. I’m actually going to a police station. This isn’t some crazy joke. Jeremy Beadle isn’t going to appear from beyond the grave and tell me that I’m actually on ‘You’ve been framed.’ They’re going to put me in a cell. Oh God. Oh God! I start to cry uncontrollably and lean forwards in my seat. A hand forces me back up and I continue to sob.

We get to Carlode Lane police station after what seems like an eternity although I know it can’t have been more than a few moments because it’s only practically over the road from the court. The only thing I can draw comfort from at the moment is at least they didn’t make me walk.

We arrive in a large grey room with a formal desk at one end and lots of benches round the side. From the amount of CCTV footage I’ve seen of this room and ones like it, I know this is the custody desk where I’ll be booked in. I’m taken over to the desk and after a short, hushed conversation with one of the male officers, a very stern woman starts firing questions at me about my name, height, weight, medical ailments and whether or not I take any sort of drugs. I answer, completely dazed by the whole situation. I really think I’m going to faint.

I’m then taken to a small brightly lit room and they take my fingerprints using black ink. I stare at my neatly manicured nails in horror and start to cry again. To add insult to injury, I’m forced to take off my shoes and hand them over along with my handbag.

I’m walked to a small cell with pale blue walls, a single bed with a blanket on it and a toilet. The door shuts and I’m left alone to try and contemplate this hideous reality. I take a seat on the edge of the bed and shudder when I realise how far from clean this cell is. I draw my knees up to my chest and lean back against the cold wall, my black gown pulled tightly around me. My wig is lying on the bed next to me but I can’t bring myself to look at it.

What the hell is going on? I try desperately to focus my mind. What was it the Judge said? Something about a cheque for £5000 and some CCTV. I haven’t got five grand! I think I’m about £5000 overdrawn if anything!

Ok, this is getting me nowhere. Obviously I know I haven’t tried to bribe a juror so if I’m not guilty then this whole thing has to be a mistake. Someone, somewhere has obviously mixed me up with someone else. My breathing becomes a little easier and some of the fog inside my head clears. They’ll realise soon that they’ve messed up and I’ll be allowed to go. Then, they can get on with arresting the real culprit. I’ll demand a full apology, I might even sue them for the pain, suffering and humiliation I’ve been put through! I’ll sell my story to the paper and make sure that everyone knows I was wrongfully arrested. Perhaps then I could even do some pro bono work defending lawyers falsely accused of crimes. I’ll became famous for being a brilliant advocate who fights for justice, maybe I’ll even take silk off the back of it!

As I’m contemplating this, the hatch in the back of the cell door opens and I can see a man in the gap.

“You have the right to free and independent legal advice,” he drones, sounding like he’s reading from a script. “Please indicate which solicitor you would like if you have a preference, or if you have none, the duty solicitor can be appointed to your case.”

“What?” I ask dumbly. He glares at me.

“You have the right to free and independent legal advice-”

“No, I understood what you said, I don’t know why you think I’d need legal advice.”

He looks at me and his eyes narrow maliciously.

“Oh yes, we all know you think you’re some hotshot barrister. You should know the law already then.”

“That’s not what I mean!” I exclaim. “Haven’t you come to tell me I can go home?”

He laughs and it’s a rather unpleasant sound.

“Let you go home? Now why would we do that? We’re just waiting for our CID man to come back in to interview you.”

The blood rushes to my head and I quickly run to the toilet and vomit. As I retch I can hear the officer laughing and I start to cry again.

“I’ll take it then that you want the duty solicitor?”

I sit back on my heels and push my hair away from my face. My throat is burning and the smell of the toilet is making me feel worse.

“No.” I say, coughing slightly. “No, I don’t want a solicitor.”

The hatch is slammed shut and I kneel on the cold dirty floor in shock. They’re going to interview me. I’m being treated like a criminal. They really think I did do this. I make my way back to the bed and lie on my side, drawing my knees up until I’m in the foetal position. I’m shaking with cold and fear, so I pull the scratchy blanket over me. It smells musty and I dread to think how many other people have used it.

I lie there for what seems like an eternity until the hatch and then the cell door is opened. The same officer from before directs me to through the custody block and to an interview room where I sit behind a table that has a tape recorder on it. I’m familiar with police interviews as I read through countless of them on a weekly basis. I know that the police are going to ask me questions about whatever it is I’m supposed to have done and this is my only chance to give them my version of events; if I come up with anything different later then people will assume I’ve used the time to make something up to try and defeat the evidence.

I drum my nails on the table and try not to look at the mean police officer that is waiting by the door. After about a minute the door opens and a smartly dressed black man comes in with the scruffy looking officer from the court. He nods at the constable who brought me in and he leaves. The black man presses ‘record’ on the tape machine and sits opposite me.

“My name is Detective Inspector 6635 Connelly. Also present is PC 2212 Matthews. The time is 12:04 and this commences the interview of Lauren Chase. Miss Chase, I understand you do not wish to be legally represented, is that correct?”

“Yes,” I reply.

“Is there any particular reason for that?” he asks.

“No,” I say, although there are actually a number of reasons for this. Firstly, I cannot imagine anything worse than having to call a solicitor to represent me. It would probably kill what’s left of my career. Secondly, I think I can probably get by on my own legal knowledge and thirdly, I haven’t done anything wrong, so I can’t really give the wrong answers. Can I?

“Well if at any time you change your mind please tell us. The interview will be stopped until you have appropriate representation.”

He repeats the words of the police caution to me and I try to stay focused. It dawns on me that if there is no evidence, then I don’t need to say anything, I can just go ‘no comment’. Surely that’ll be easier than being interrogated? I tune in to what he is saying.

“...benefit of the tape I’m producing exhibit WC/3”

He places a transparent bag in front of me. In it is a rectangular piece of paper.

“Do you recognise this Miss Chase?”

“No?” I say before I can stop myself. As I look closer, I’m gripped by a paralysing feeling of terror. I pick it up and scrutinise it feeling the waves of nausea return.

“What is that Miss Chase?” asks Connelly.

“It’s, it’s a cheque.” I reply stupidly.

“And what does it say on the cheque?” he prompts.

I pick up the bag and stare at the cheque. I instantly recognise the familiar sort code and account number and the full name printed in block capitals across the bottom. It’s unmistakably one of mine. In blue ink, someone has addressed the cheque to a man called Stephen Walker in the amount of five thousand pounds.

“It’s a cheque for five thousand pounds.” I croak.

“From whom?” he persists.

“It’s my cheque, but I didn’t write it!” I stammer.

“Take a look at the signature please,” he directs in a sharp voice.

I do and nearly black out when I register the loopy blue letters scribed neatly underneath the amount box.

“Whose signature is that?” he asks, knowing the answer.

“It’s, it’s mine,” I cry, “But I didn’t sign this!”

“So Miss Chase, we have your cheque with your signature on it do we not?”

“Where did you get this?” I ask desperately.

“Mr. Walker is one of the jurors on the Hobbs trial. After he complained to one of the ushers last night, they called the police this morning and he has repeated to us that you had tried to bribe him into returning a guilty verdict. You gave him this cheque.”

“I did no such thing!”

“What was it Lauren, were you that desperate to make sure you won? Wanted the glory of winning your first murder?” chips in PC Matthews.

“No!” I sob, “I would never try to do that. I don’t even know who he is!”

“Never seen or met him then?” asks Connelly softly.

“No! This is a huge mistake. I don’t know anything about this cheque!” I protest, knowing that neither officer believes what I’m trying to tell them.

Matthews smiles nastily at me.

“Why don’t you take a look at the monitor then?”

I pause, confused and turn to my left where a television has been set up. Matthews picks up a remote from underneath it and presses a few buttons. We sit in silence for a moment before the screen bursts into life. It’s grainy at first and I try to make sense of the blurry images on the screen.

In an instant it snaps into focus and I recognise the street by the car park before anything else. I watch with an increasing sense of horror as a portion of a familiar scene plays out before my eyes. The camera pans round and I see myself handing an envelope to a man in a flat cap. My lips are moving and the man nods. I’m walking away and the man turns to look at me.

“That,” says Connelly, “Is Mr. Walker.”

“And that is when you gave him this cheque,” adds Matthews, somewhat unnecessarily with a sickening note of triumph in his tone.

Chapter Fifteen

I sit in my cell and watch the sky outside darken.  I sip at a cup of luke-warm tea, housed in a polystyrene cup that was given to me by a female officer about twenty minutes ago. Although my head is full of the devastation unfolding around me, I can’t face thinking about it at the moment. Instead I’m counting the rows of bricks on the wall in front of me.

I have no concept as to the time; I know I’ve been sat here most of the day and I have no idea how long they plan on keeping me here for. The hatch in the door is opened at sporadic intervals and I’ve seen countless different faces looking in at me. I’m trying not to feel paranoid about this; I know it’s routine for the police to keep people in their custody under observations, but I can’t help feeling that everyone is coming to have a good old-fashioned gawp at me.

I attempt to focus my thoughts so that I can rationally think about what is most likely to happen to me. From the evidence they showed me in the interview, I can’t escape from the fact that there is a case against me. That means they’ll either charge me with something soon, or bail me pending further enquiries. If it’s the former then I’ll be produced at court, as a Defendant and the whole sickening process will start. I try helplessly to stay calm at this but I’m overwhelmed by what may be coming.

The night seems endless and I lie awake on the hard mattress feeling totally empty. I have a pounding headache and I couldn’t face the meal that was put through the door earlier. Things must be bad if I’ve lost my appetite. They let me try to call Sebastian earlier, but his phone went straight to voicemail. I’m afraid that he’ll already know about this, that someone will have told him about my spectacular fall from grace. I pray that he knows me well enough to instantly realise that there has been a horrible mistake. With a sickening sense of reality, I imagine the press hounding him and my family for a quote.

By the time morning comes I’ve imagined all sorts of terrible scenarios in which Sebastian has denied any connection to me and my parents have disowned me. Whilst these thoughts have been mentally crippling, they’ve saved me from thinking about what may ultimately happen to me.

To my surprise the cell door opens and an unfamiliar female officer stands in the open space.

“Time to go,” she barks perfunctorily.

“What?” I reply dumbly.

“Get your things,” she repeats impatiently.

I rise to my feet, noticing instantly the cold floor against my stockinged feet. I pick up my discarded wig from the bed and rub my hands across my cheekbones in an attempt to remove some of the makeup that I know must be streaked across my face.