The public gallery paused with bated breath, as the prosecution stepped forward, smiling and with a plan; the young dark-haired learned man in the black robe and white wig turned around towards the jury to survey them, gathered in anticipation.
There wasn’t a single person in the room who didn’t know the names Mark King and Mohammed Al Azidi thanks to the coverage from the newspapers over the last few months. Public reaction over the allegations was largely one of anger and calls for tighter border controls, anti-immigration, political intervention. Surrounded by wooden pews, lined with officials, and overlooked by a packed public gallery, the prosecution’s star player stepped forward and addressed the court, in his two minute opening statement.
‘Age old law,’ he began, raising his arms up as he looked high around the ancient courtroom, ‘that pillar stone of the justice process, has bought us here together today.’
The judge removed his tiny spectacles and leaned forward across his bench, intrigued by the opening statement. High in the press gallery, a small man, a journalist with a notebook and a fringe which dangled tattily over one side of his face, narrowed his eyes towards the prosecution as the two men’s eyes met. The prosecution paused for a second as both men held their stare before the journalist broke eye contact and scribbled notes in the battered-looking notebook. The prosecution smiled as he turned back to address the courtroom.
‘As you well know, the prosecution has the burden of proof to prove its case,’ he smiled, acknowledging the judge who was by now smiling, ‘beyond ALL reasonable doubt.’
There was chatter from the public gallery as tenseness came over the court where you could almost hear a pin drop and cut the atmosphere with a knife.
‘Therefore, the prosecution must present evidence which proves, beyond reasonable doubt, that the defendant…’
There was another pause as he spun around like lightning, pointing a finger directly at the defendant, causing the defendant and the courtroom to jump back and gasp.
‘This man, this clearly GUILTY man, did, on February twenty-eighth of this year, commit an act of atrocity against this country, against the free world and against humanity itself!’
There was a stir again from the court as the defence sat scribbling notes; some watched this master class of a closing statement.
‘Ruthlessly, he did on that fateful night whilst we were all in our beds, seemingly safe and soundly sleeping, decide on an inauspicious and tragic course of action.’
The defendant bowed his head, not wanting to face the inevitable truth that the country’s best lawyer was against him and there was no way he would escape a momentously long prison sentence.
‘Evidence has been presented to this court, this wondrous house of truth and justice, which is unequivocal and inescapable in its legitimacy. We must send a clear message to those who would seek to travel to our shores, bask in our hospitality, benefit from our graciousness and take from our resources, that you cannot commit these kinds of crimes and escape justice.’
The judge, on hearing this, which may be construed as interfering with sentencing legislation, sat forward and frowned.
‘Mr. King,’ he began but was prevented from continuing by the prosecution’s Mr. King putting his hand up immediately in acknowledgement of what he had said and continued in his speech.
‘Mr. Rahman, a young man who until now had led a life of peace, tranquility and hard work. Indeed we have heard testimony from many witnesses as to his character, his reputation and his deeply devout faith and, yes, indeed some may be swayed.’
Mark King had gotten quieter and quieter at this point and those who knew him best, those who had seen him in action before, knew he was building towards a dramatic crescendo.
‘That this somehow exonerates him from fault?’ he shouted, his voice raised louder, his climactic theatricality entertaining the entire courtroom.
Mark stopped, and turned to the jury who watched, drawn in by the theatricality and razzle dazzle of the show before them.
‘Radicalisation?’ he asked, slowly walking past the jury, occasionally stopping at a member of the jury sat nearest the front. ‘Perhaps, but what the fundamental truth is is that no matter what the reason for the crime, the crime WAS committed.’
Mark swept across the courtroom towards the defendant, arms outstretched like a warlock about to cast a spell on an unsuspecting victim.
‘BUT IT WAS MURDER!’ he shouted, his hand held high as a finger pointed towards the ceiling, ‘was it not, which occurred that night, MURDER, deliberate, calculated and pre-meditated murder, of an innocent civilian, all because Mr. Rahman wanted to obtain materials to build an explosive device and the victim, the innocent and ill-fated victim, a family man with children, whose wife sits in the public gallery surrounded by her friends and family, cries herself to sleep at night as she tries to explain to her children that daddy isn’t coming home.’
Mark pointed to the defendant whilst facing the jury.
‘This man, the defendant you see before you, is the ONLY person responsible for this heinous crime. Richard Wilkinson, the deceased, sacrificed his life to prevent mass murder, to protect the innocent from what COULD have been an atrocity, the scale of which has not been seen since the July 2007 London bombings.’
There was a deliberate pause by the prosecution as he let the jury and the courtroom soak up everything he had said as Mark returned to his desk, his glasses in his hand and one arm of the glasses in his mouth as he turned a page over in his notebook.
‘Members of the jury, sadly, it is not MY decision to seek to enact justice against this man, merely to present to you the truth. Not a version of the truth decided by one party over another, but the unavoidable truth because of the facts presented herein. I ask you, this man IS guilty, search your hearts and your feelings, and you WILL come to the right decision.’
He walked towards the defendant one last time.
‘The ONLY decision which should be returned,’ he paused again and stared into the eyes of the defendant.
In all Mark King’s years of behavioural profiling, he knew when someone was about to crack and he sensed it here, now, as he took his final breath, he felt the tension in his entire body as he slowed his breathing down, centered his balance, took one final look deep into the defendant’s eyes and turned.
‘GUILTY!’
The loudness of the shout made everyone in the courtroom jump and a shocked gasp from the crowd, together with the drama and theatre of Mark’s statement, caused the defendant to sob and nod his head. Mark merely waved his arm towards the defendant as if he were allowing the jury to walk through a door he had held open for them. Their faces, one by one, became stern and unforgiving. Mark turned, smiled at the judge who gave a nod of acknowledgement, and returned to his seat.
‘Your Honour, the prosecution rests,’ he said pleasantly and glanced up towards the public gallery.
The journalist was shaking his head in anger but it wasn’t Ian Hawking that Mark King was looking at, it was Mrs. Wilkinson, the wife of the victim who smiled and mouthed the words ‘thank you’ to Mark. Mark smiled and nodded. Now it was down to the jury to decide.