Mark King pushed his way through the huddle of journalists with cameras, microphones and notebooks as he attempted to leave the courtroom; as usual, there was one journalist in particular who reached him first, and it was Ian Hawking.
‘Mr King, such an overly dramatic and unnecessary presentation of the facts in your statement, do you really think theatre and over-acting will continue to win you cases like these on this scale?’
Mark King shrugged as he deliberately made eye contact with the journalist.
‘That depends, do you think a gaudy suit, tatty hair and the smell of last night’s stale beer on your breath will obtain better news stories?’ he said nonchalantly, continuing to walk past.
The pack of journalists Mark King hated so much erupted into laughter as a female news reporter stood next to Hawking caught a whiff of his breath and screwed up her face in disgust before backing away in a very obvious manner. Hawking looked mortally wounded, confused and angered as the rest of the pack pushed him to the back and followed Mark out towards the stone steps which lead into the court’s marbled foyer. Hawking was left behind and threw his notebook on the floor in disgust.
There was a waiting mob of reporters, all set up with TV cameras on tripods, and TV news crews’ vans which had been camped outside the courts since the trial began. It wasn’t Mark’s biggest audience, but he took the hand of Mrs. Wilkinson, whom he had led out onto the steps, surrounding by almost the entire litigation team of Lever & Sons LLP who had been instructed to prosecute Mr. Rahman. Mark smiled at Mrs. Wilkinson and winked before he held his hands up to silence the waiting mob.
Shouts came from the waiting press as each one of them wanted their question answered first.
‘Mr King, did you expect a guilty verdict?’ shouted one; Mark chuckled but didn’t have time to respond.
‘Mrs. Wilkinson, are you pleased with the result and feel you can now lay your husband to rest?’ another shouted.
She glanced at Mark, who smiled and put his hand up, signalling for her not to answer.
‘Do you think this case will set a precedent for the government and security services to act quicker to prevent home grown terrorism?’ a voice cried from within the crowd.
Mark patted Mrs. Wilkinson on the back as she took out her folded A4 sheet of paper she had prepared a speech on. As she began, the crowds listened and, fighting back tears, she described how her family were coping with the tragic loss and how they could now finally move on after achieving justice for her husband. Quietly and stealthily, Mark King slipped further back until he was at the back of the crowd, and slipped away towards his parked car.
Had he moved moments, seconds even, earlier, he may have avoided the hounding and bitter questioning of Ian Hawking, who had eventually found his way out of the courtroom and spotted Mark tiptoeing away and followed him.
‘Mr King, a word now if you please,’ he squirmed, fumbling for his notebook and pencil, upsetting his case of paperwork all over the concrete as the wind swept paper up into the air.
‘For God’s sake man, who the hell are you anyway, can’t you see I’ve got a home to go to?’ snapped Mark as he quickened his pace to reach his car before Hawking followed.
‘Always got a witty remark, haven’t you, King,’ Hawking snarled as he attempted to pick up the paperwork from the floor.
‘Look, where do you get off on this …’ Mark couldn’t remember his name and fumbled for a moment or two trying to remember, ‘whatever your name is, why do you feel it necessary to harass me?’
‘I just want some answers from you; you avoid me all the time, what have you got to hide?’ Hawking replied sarcastically.
Mark shuddered as he reached his car and remotely unlocked it, putting his case and court papers into the boot. Hawking was quick on his feet and the two men stood, face to face. Hawking smiled a wry and sycophantic smile as he felt his anger build.
‘You will fall one day, Mark King, and I will be there to catch every second of it!’
Mark watched as the pathetic little man chewed on his gum and smiled through stained teeth.
‘Good luck with that Harrington,’ he remarked as he got into the car and drove off, leaving Hawking stood there alone, still smiling,
‘It’s Hawking,’ he uttered in a disgruntled voice, ‘my name is Hawking,’ before he turned to leave.
As Mark walked in through the doors of Levers & Sons LLP law firm, he was greeted by a joyous and triumphant welcoming party of laughing and victorious staff who patted him on the back and shook hands with him as he tried, with difficulty, to make his way towards his office.
‘Well done, Mark!’ a voice shouted.
‘Wonderful performance!’ shouted another.
‘Magnificent achievement, a great victory!’ another one cried as Mark reached the lift and the doors opened.
He smiled a reluctant smile and put his hand up to wave in appreciation as the lift doors closed. When he reached his floor, he was greeted by almost as celebratory a group as the one he had just left downstairs, although this one was much more reserved. As Mark walked towards his office, he could see the familiar suited, white haired, and short, trimmed bearded figure of his boss and half of the creators of the firm, Hugo Lever. Mark smiled as he stood in front of his senior partner.
‘Mark, well done boy!’ Hugo said his face broadening with a beaming smile, as he firmly shook Mark by the hand and slapped him on the back.
‘Thank you Hugo, but I have work to do.’
‘On the contrary old boy, now listen, I have just had word from my contact in the security services,’ he explained as Mark rolled his eyes in wonder at how Hugo was so well connected.
‘Oh really?’ Mark said, feigning interest.
‘He advised me thanks to your “performance” in there, they are now investigating a second “Person of Interest” higher up the chain of command of this splinter group of terrorists.’
‘That’s good.’ Mark nodded and smiled as Hugo walked Mark towards his office with his arm firmly around Mark’s shoulder.
‘Now, take the rest of the day off. Why not go and have a rest, celebrate with Marie, think of it as a “thank you” for all your hard work.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Hugo, but I …’
‘I insist,’ Hugo interrupted, his eyes narrowing into a serious frown.
Mark knew better than to argue with Hugo on matters like this, and reluctantly placed his paperwork and case down, and reached for his car keys.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ Hugo said insistently as he directed Mark towards the door.
‘Thanks Hugo,’ Mark uttered as he left the room.
Hugo shut the glass door behind him and walked towards his desk phone. He picked up the receiver and dialled a speed dial number, and awaited an answer.
‘Yes, this is Hugo; I think we need to talk.’