The first day of the trial came too quickly, Dan thought, as he tapped his fingers on the desk in front of him in courtroom number one, under the high ceilings of the Crown Court in Langton, at the other end of the motorway to Highford.
The weekend had been spent quietly, Jayne trying to keep Dan’s focus on the trial, despite what else was going on. They’d talked strategies as Dan had read and reread every statement, so that he felt like he knew it from memory.
Rodney could change everything, but they had to start the case as if Rodney wasn’t getting involved, not knowing what he was going to say to Jayne.
The weekend hadn’t all been about Nick’s trial though. They’d talked, but it had been different from before, because they were lovers now. Neither knew how it would go, nor for how long it would it last, but it felt good and natural, like it was the one thing that was meant to be.
He looked around the courtroom, hoping the surroundings would inspire him. Long green curtains covered the vast windows, interspersed by dusty portraits of judges of days gone by. The building was old stone, grand and imposing, pillars at the entrance, the courtroom lined with panelled wood.
It was so different to how he spent most days, engaged in small scraps in the Magistrates’ Court. The daily grind, long hours spent fighting on behalf of drunks, thugs and thieves, the penalty for losing just a fine or a short prison sentence, and all the options in between, acted out beneath crumbling plaster and faded paint.
A murder trial was different. There were high stakes, with a life in prison awaiting the convicted. For Dan, it was more than that though, because his case had spiralled out of control, where he didn’t how it would go once it started. The week before had been chaotic, nervy, as the case changed from just another murder. He bore the bruises, although Jayne had applied concealer to hide them from the jurors. It made his skin feel greasy and he worried whether it would attract strange glances, people spotting that he was wearing make-up.
Just another murder.
Dan knew how bad that sounded, because all murders are horrific, the ending of a life. At least he was doing the trial himself, so he had some control over what happened, even if it did mean appearances amongst the dusty wigs and black gowns.
Dan was a solicitor-advocate, qualified to appear in the higher courts, in front of juries and appeal judges. It forced him to mix with barristers from the circuit, those who’d once fluffed him up to keep the work coming but who now regarded him as an interloper. The divide between barristers and solicitors was broken down years earlier, jury trials no longer the sole preserve of Bar School products desperate to impress with their wigs and starched collars, but it didn’t mean it was welcomed. Solicitors could appear in all the courts, provided they’d gained the experience and approval, and cutbacks in funding meant that more were opting to do their own jury work.
That wasn’t always a good thing. The old closed shop for barristers allowed them to develop their speciality: trial advocacy. Many solicitor-advocates had the skills, but there were too many who didn’t: they opted for the Crown Court for financial reasons.
For Dan, he could only hope that he could show that he was good enough, not merely that he was cheap enough.
What marked him out was the lack of a horsehair wig. He wore the gown but left the wig for the barristers and their egos. For all they proclaimed that the wigs helped them maintain their anonymity, that it somehow kept them independent, Dan knew the truth was simpler than that. It was status, nothing more, and he guessed that they had all stood proud before the mirror on receipt of their first wig, knowing that they’d made it.
He could wear one if he wanted, but he didn’t, because he thought that it gave him a head start before the jury, marked him out as the underdog, that Nick Connor didn’t have the regal trappings of his opponent. When the opposition case was strong, every advantage had to be taken.
He glanced along the bench. His opponent for the days ahead was calm. Frank McAllister, a man who’d risen through the prosecution ranks to conduct his own murder trials, just like Dan had. Murder trials used to be the preserve of Queen’s Counsels, the QCs, silks, those senior barristers whose abilities allowed them to get the pick of all the good cases. But they came with a big price tag. Budgets were squeezed now, on both sides. Dan couldn’t always get permission to employ a QC, dependent on government funds, and for the prosecution a QC’s bill eats a big way into the budget. No, it seemed that the way forward was to get two lesser lawyers to scrap it out.
Frank looked his way and smiled. Tall and debonair, his dark hair slicked back, his nose hooked.
Dan liked him. He was good but fair, knew when to concede but fought hard when he thought he was right. The mark of a good lawyer. For Dan, his own opinions didn’t always count for much, because sometimes clients wanted to fight for every last chance of winning, even if it made the punishment harsher.
‘Can I expect any surprises?’ Frank said.
‘That depends on what you’re expecting.’ Dan looked back to Nick Connor, sitting in the dock with his eyes glazed, fear etched on his face. ‘I don’t always say this, but I’ve got an innocent one this time.’
Frank raised an eyebrow. ‘If only we shared the same view. I’ve never prosecuted someone I thought was innocent, and your man.’ Frank tilted his head towards the dock. ‘He’s a long way from innocent.’
Dan looked away.
He knew that the jurors would see the same thing Frank did, that Nick Connor was someone who’d chosen to live on the wrong side of the law and had made a bid for promotion, a murder charge this time.
His client looked like everyone’s late-night fear. Well-built and imposing, a prison build, honed from too many hours to kill awaiting his trial, his hair cropped short but only serving to show the scars of battle, those nicks and marks from fights gone by. Dan had told him to relax more, to cut out the insolent stare, but old habits were hard to break.
Dan’s thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the judge, heralded by a knock on the wood-panelled door, followed by the shuffle of feet as everyone in the courtroom rose.
Judge Deane. Dan was pleased it was her. She was fair and polite, but that disguised a sharp mind. He’d get no chance to charm her, but at least he’d get a proper hearing.
As she bowed to the courtroom, everyone following, Dan closed his eyes and let out a long breath.
Now was the time.