Chapter 17 Jack
Jack
Durham Crown Court
Five years earlier
“Four years?” I say again, as if repeating it will change the outcome. “That’s the longest sentence I’ve ever had.”
I can’t go to prison for that long. An image of my foster mam flashes through my head as I sit on the edge of the plastic chair, my hands together in front of my mouth as if I’m praying.
I can’t help but think of the disappointment she’d feel if she was still here.
It was bad enough I was in prison when she died, unable to say a final goodbye.
I’ve never forgiven myself for that. She warned me not to do it, but I was adamant I’d give her a good send-off when the time came.
That’s the only good thing about terminal cancer: you can at least plan your funeral.
They’re expensive, though, so I needed to get some money in, and quick.
I’d planned to sell coke and pills, just for a few weeks. It was pure bad luck I was caught. Even though the judge took circumstances into account, he still locked me up. Some posh prick who didn’t have the slightest clue what it was like to lose the only person you’ve ever loved.
Now here I am again, only a few years later, this time for a longer stint and charged with an even more serious offense. She’d be thoroughly ashamed of me.
“I am so, so sorry,” my barrister, Miss Reynolds, says. “This shouldn’t have happened.”
“Can we appeal it?”
“No,” she says quietly but firmly.
“But it didn’t happen like that.”
“I know, Mr. Millman. But a jury has heard all the evidence and found you guilty.”
“They didn’t believe me, in other words.”
Taking a deep breath, she reaches for her wig, pulls it off, and slings it onto the table. Her blonde hair sticks up everywhere. I’ve never seen her without it on before.
“I think it was very difficult for them to piece your evidence together without hearing from your main defense witness. Because she didn’t turn up.”
“Well, we know why she didn’t turn up, don’t we?” I say. “She was obviously paid off by Tony Flanagan.”
“It was unfortunate that the victim in this case happened to be a connected crime boss who would have had the resources and influence to do that,” she says, choosing her words carefully. She’s clever. I’ve come to like her over the course of this trial.
“How did the jury not see through his lies, though? Playing the whole Mr. Nice Guy. That’s what I don’t understand. I’ve met some shady characters in my time, but he is the worst.”
“It happens all the time,” she says abruptly.
“I see it every day. There are people in this world who are very good liars, and there are others who are easily deceived. Get those people together and you have a dangerous situation. You can make them believe anything. Flanagan painted himself as a victim, a harmless customer of Temptation one Saturday night just having a good time. And you—the angry doorman who worked for his rival with an axe to grind—assaulted him viciously.”
“I’m finished after this,” I tell her, shaking my head. “Word will get around I’ve pissed off one of the biggest criminal names in the area. It’s a small world. It’s probably safer for me to stay in prison.”
“You’ve been sentenced to four years. You’ll be out in two if you demonstrate good behavior. What’s done is done. People have short memories. Keep a low profile when you get out and with luck I won’t see you again.”
She smiles at me in a way that makes me feel that everything is going to be OK, which is mad, given I’m about to go back to prison.
“Thanks, Miss Reynolds.”
“I really do wish you the best, Mr. Millman,” she says. “I’ll certainly miss your dark humor.”
We both laugh, and I make a pathetic attempt to lighten the mood by making a dry comment, forcing her to write it down in her barrister notebook. It’s been a running joke during this trial that she writes down absolutely everything I say.
“Thanks for believing me, Miss Reynolds. Not many people do.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t do better. I really am. You’re not a bad person, Jack.”
“I put myself here. Whether I was trying to defend someone or not, I have to take responsibility for that.”
Picking her wig up off the table, she stands and goes to walk out. Her heels click on the floor, then stop.
“Our mistake was letting the prosecution know what your defense was going to be,” she says, without turning around.
“What?”
“Speaking off-record here,” she says quietly, now turning to face me.
“Flanagan would have done everything in his power to cover this up. You’re right—there’s no way he would have allowed that woman to give evidence.
She’s probably either received a huge sum of money to keep quiet or has been threatened. ”
“You’re saying I never had a chance?”
“There’s always a chance,” she says, shaking her head, “but it should have been left to the jury. We shouldn’t have served a defense statement.
That way the prosecution would have had absolutely no notice of anything you were going to say at trial.
You can’t sabotage what you don’t know is coming.
We gave Flanagan all the information he needed to derail your defense.
The trick is to say nothing until trial.
Especially when high-profile people are involved. I see that now.”
“But didn’t the judge say that would be bad for my case? That there are inferences the jury can make if I leave my defense until then? You’re not supposed to ambush them, are you?”
“Yes, and that’s why I didn’t go down that route. But every member on that jury is human. They can be manipulated into thinking exactly what you want them to…if you’ve got a good enough barrister.”
“Manipulated?” I repeat back to her. I don’t think she’s aware she used that word.
“Persuaded…” she says, correcting herself. “It is jurors—not the prosecution, not the judge—who are the keyholders to your liberty. Remember that next time.”
“Trust me, there won’t be a next time. Not after this.”
She smiles and reaches for the door handle.
“I have to admit,” I say, “I didn’t have you down as that kind of lawyer.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s hard to think of you doing anything that isn’t by the book.”
She thinks for a few seconds, seeming to consider what to say.
“You’d be surprised.”
Her guard drops when she says it. She’s not the same Miss Reynolds I’ve been with over the past few days. It’s someone else, someone more vulnerable, more complicated. Someone with a story.
“Any last words of advice before they lock me up and throw away the key?”
“Yes, actually.” She nods. “Don’t trust anyone. Especially lawyers.”