Post Mortem by Gary Bell (inspirational books for students .TXT) 📗

‘Mandamás.’

‘Mandamás …’ I repeated in disbelief.

‘I know, don’t get me started. Some name for a ginger, eh?’ He stood awkwardly for a moment, and then checked his watch. ‘We start in a couple of minutes, don’t we? Don’t you reckon we should be, like, getting inside?’

‘Absolutely,’ I said. ‘I’ll be inside as soon as I’ve finished this.’

I held up my empty hand, fingers clenched around nothing, my cigarette still smouldering by my feet. Delroy glanced down at it, and then to me with an expression that suggested I might have lost the plot, then he left us standing outside.

‘Mandamus!’ Zara gasped, almost keeling over. ‘It’s a legal term, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. The judicial command given to an inferior court, or when ordering somebody to perform a duty. In Latin, it literally means we command. But he didn’t say Mandamus. He said Mandamás, which is Spanish.’

‘As in, Costa del Crime Spanish?’

‘Yes.’

‘You spent a lot of time in Spain, right? Do you know what it means?’

‘Yes.’ I swallowed. I took a long, shaky breath. ‘Mandamás translates as Top Dog.’

‘Holy shit!’ Zara was now bouncing in her boots. ‘We need to tell Linford!’

‘We do,’ I agreed. ‘But he’s inside, and court commences in four minutes.’

‘So, what the hell are we going to do?’

I marched for the doors. ‘We’re going to win.’

30

Garrick was already in the courtroom when I entered. He gave me a rare friendly nod as I settled into counsels’ row.

‘I must say, Rook, that I am genuinely looking forward to cross-examining your client this morning. For both sides, this has been quite the case.’

‘I wouldn’t look forward to it too much,’ I replied bluntly, pouring myself a water.

The court filled quickly. Every participant seemed restless this morning, apparently eager to hear Charli’s side of a story poised so impossibly against her. Despite having already given his evidence, DI Linford was sitting alongside the CPS lawyer behind Garrick, staying until the bitter end of these bizarre proceedings.

Lady Allen looked down from the bench, inviting me to commence in the usual fashion.

‘Yes, Mr Rook?’

‘My Lady.’ I climbed to my feet. ‘The defence does not call Charli Meadows to give evidence.’

Whispers swept the room.

‘I see,’ she replied. ‘Have you warned your client that the jury may draw whatever inferences they think fit from her decision not to give evidence?’

‘I have.’

‘Very well. Will the defence be calling any evidence?’

‘Yes, My Lady. I intend to call my instructing solicitor, Ms Lydia Roth, but she is currently dealing with a brief matter over in Court 8. I’m not entirely sure how long that will take.’

‘I can find out easily enough,’ she said, and then muttered something to the court’s clerk, who picked up her phone and conducted a short, hushed conversation, before reporting back to the judge. ‘Apparently,’ Allen continued, ‘the matter in Court 8 involving your solicitor is just drawing to an end. I’m informed that she should be here in two minutes, so rather than rise I think we’ll wait for her to arrive.’

‘Perfect,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’

I sat back down to wait. I fiddled with my cuffs and straightened my wig. The room was mostly silent. A few coughs. A sniffle here and there. Two minutes passed. Then three. Four. I noticed the judge’s eyes narrow as she watched the clock.

Garrick leaned close, his tone fouler than it had been at the prospect of tearing my client to pieces. ‘This is a funny two minutes,’ he grumbled. ‘Is she off doing her hair?’

In the circumstances, I couldn’t do more than shrug. Members of the jury were watching me expectantly, which brought warmth into my cheeks. I pictured Lydia swaggering through the corridors in her usual fashion, heels clacking. No rush, Lydia. Take your time.

She was probably weighed down with paperwork, as always. The image brought a half-grin to my mouth. Tonight, I imagined, I’d search on eBay for one of those neon-green satchels that paperboys carry. The cheaper and more garish the better. I’d present it to her over our next drink. Or a child’s rucksack, perhaps. I could just see her designer glasses pairing nicely with a Star Wars backpack full of papers.

I couldn’t keep from grinning at the image, which drew a suspicious frown from the bench, so I quickly reached for my water to hide my lips behind the glass.

Yes, that’d be perfect: a child’s rucksack full of papers.

I felt my smile fall away. My lips turned very cold, but not from the drink.

A rucksack. Full of papers.

Stacks of paper on a train to Margate.

Lydia’s papers, always lighter after venturing down into the cells. Lydia Roth, handing papers to her clients. Legal papers folded up in their pockets and taken back to Belmarsh, Brixton, Pentonville, Wandsworth, Wormwood Scrubs.

I must’ve tipped the glass too far, because water was pouring all over me.

Somebody in the jury giggled.

‘Mr Rook,’ Allen said with a hint of concern, ‘is everything all right?’

I didn’t have chance to respond before doors opened behind me and the sound of heels entered the courtroom. ‘The defence calls Ms Lydia Roth,’ I croaked, stumbling to my feet without turning round.

Lydia walked straight into the witness box and swore on the Bible to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but. She was smiling politely, but she didn’t look thrilled to be sworn inside the box. Her eyes were colder than I’d seen them. As always, the papers she’d been carrying were gone. Had she always looked so bare without them?

In those split seconds, I imagined the minutes ahead as if I were at a crossroads.

If my spiralling thoughts were incorrect, I might well be struck off for trying.

And if these suspicions were well founded, I might still be struck off regardless. Not for the first time, Rupert’s voice came to mind.

To promote and protect fearlessly and by all proper and lawful means the lay client’s best interests. To do so without regard to his own interests or to any consequences to himself or to any other person.

I