Chapter 3 #3
Gregory’s chest rises and falls with his slow, shallow breath.
He’s controlled, measured. CEO mode is activated.
‘Mr Harrison, allow me to tell you something. I killed a man because he was about to kill me. I killed a man in self-defence. If you can’t prevent a charge on those grounds then you surely don’t deserve the right to call yourself King’s Counsel. ’
The two men regard one another thoughtfully then John dips his head. The battle for alpha is over. ‘Let us consider your mens rea: your state of mind or motive, if you will. The attacker, were you aware of who he was and why he might have wanted to harm you?’
Gregory sits taller in his chair and clenches a fist again, the white of his knuckles fighting to break the surface of his skin. ‘His name was Kevin Pearson. He was my biological father.’
‘Hmm, yes, you do tend to know the attacker. Not many people strike without cause. So tell me, he hated you because…?’
Gregory rolls his jaw left then right. ‘I bought his company with the sole intention of selling it off.’
‘A hostile takeover?’
‘In more ways than one,’ Gregory declares.
‘Mmhmm, there we are then: we have your attacker’s motive and what about yours? I presume the takeover was intended to punish your father. Give me the facts.’
Gregory bites down on his gums whilst my heart is shattering into a thousand pieces. I don’t want him to go through this.
‘He beat my mother,’ he says, curt and matter-of-fact.
‘Mmhmm, go on.’
‘That’s the story.’
‘Give me the detail. The detail is where we hook the jury.’
‘That’s the story, Mr Harrison, and we’ll leave it there. A jury will have to make a decision based on the facts of the night.’
‘Young man, I am afraid it just does not work that way. Whether I draw it out of you or the prosecution drag it out of you, if you sit on that stand, your past will become your present and the jury will scrutinise every move you have made and every step you have taken for as many days as you have lived.’
Tears build in my eyes and a lump forms in my throat. I can’t put him through that. He won’t open up to me, let alone a room full of strangers.
‘If the jury explores my past, it will realise that bastard beat my mother and killed… tried to kill me. He deserved to die. How can that go against me?’
‘Because you have a motive to kill him,’ I croak. ‘He hurt you. He hurt someone you love and you wanted him dead. That’s not self-defence, Gregory, that’s premeditated killing, and a jury will think that should be prosecuted.’
I lock my eyes onto his, trying to make him see that I should be punished. I shot a man because he took my dad’s life and turned a gun on the man I love. I killed with motive. Gregory holds my stare. He won’t give me permission, not now, not yet.
‘She is right, old boy; that is exactly what a jury will see. The fact you’re a very wealthy man in a position of power will not lend you sympathy.’
Gregory speaks without taking his eyes from mine. ‘Then you’d better make damn sure this case doesn’t go to trial, Mr Harrison.’
‘Well, let us discuss that. You have not been charged yet, I understand.’
‘That’s right.’
‘That is a good sign. Let me tell you how this works. You see, the police investigate and the Crown Prosecution Service decides whether or not to charge and prosecute.’ John rises from his chair and perambulates the chamber’s perimeter.
‘The decision to prosecute is based on two things.’ He raises one finger in the air.
‘The first is the evidential test. Remember the CPS is funded by public money, therefore it will only go ahead with a charge and prosecution where it is certain there is sufficient evidence to secure a conviction and that the person being charged is the true defendant.’
I shift awkwardly in my seat and feel heat prick my skin under Gregory’s oppressive glower.
‘Of course, one can have evidence enough to prosecute but believe that there is a true defence. In this case, that would be self-defence. And there you see we have a dilemma, to spend public money or not to spend public money; that is the question. If the CPS believes a defence is likely to succeed, it will not and should not waste the good man’s taxes. Are you with me?’
Gregory nods once: a curt, businesslike dip of his head.
‘The second test,’ John begins, even more animated, lifting two fingers into the air, ‘is the public interest test. Essentially, the question is, are you a danger to the public? I suspect you would say no. Of course, there is more threat to the public in the case of murder than in the case of petty theft, I am sure you will agree. But that is not to say the CPS will always prosecute a murder. They will think about the victim’s family and the impact a decision not to prosecute may have on them. ’
Gregory snorts.
‘Yes, well, we might not have a problem there. Jolly good. One of the more likely ways to escape prosecution is a lack of evidence but of course you, Scarlett and your driver concur that you did in fact kill a man. And there is the matter of the weapon. The CPS will not look favourably on your weapon of choice.’
‘Let’s cut to the chase,’ Gregory snaps. ‘Can you stop this going to trial or not?’
‘I do believe, old boy, until you are ready to share your past with me, your best odds are if the CPS chooses not to prosecute your case.’
‘And the chances of that happening?’
‘I would say sixty/forty on what I have learned today. Sixty/forty against you, that is.’
I close my eyes and will myself to be strong for Gregory.
‘That said, often in cases of compelling evidence or where there is a threat to the public, the CPS would decide to charge immediately, which they have not. And, I am the best, old boy. And if there is a man who can prevent a prosecution, it is me.’
‘How long before they make a decision?’ I ask.
‘Given they have not made the decision immediately, despite a confession, I would imagine they are waiting for a ballistics report to establish that you are the true defendant, and they may be exploring the strength of a self-defence argument. I can make a call on your behalf but I would hazard a guess at five to seven days for the ballistics report, give or take. If they explore the defence, they will almost certainly look to others in your life to question and establish motive. In this case, the longer it takes to hear from the CPS, the better, I think.’
Five to seven days. Then he could be hauled off in cuffs and tried for my crime.
‘What if… what if it goes to trial and we lose?’ I croak.
‘Scarlett, stop it.’
‘No, Gregory, you need to hear this. What’s the worst-case scenario, John?’
‘Life in prison.’
Despite already knowing the answer to my own question, I’m unable to prevent the erratic beat of my heart and the spinning in my head.
Gregory swallows so hard that I hear it. ‘That won’t happen. I won’t let that happen. Scarlett, listen to me. Open your eyes. Open your eyes and look at me.’
I do as he asks, slowly peeling my eyelids up, my pupils on fire.
‘That won’t happen,’ he says, taking my hand in his.
I nod twice. ‘Excuse me, I need the ladies’.’
‘Down the hall to the left, Scarlett,’ John chirps.
I can feel Gregory watching me as I make to leave the room, nausea making my head spin.
‘Now then, old boy, shall we talk figures? I charge by the hour.’
‘Let’s take 20 per cent off that, John, and call you my defence lawyer.’
‘Ten.’
‘Fifteen.’
‘And I’ll shake your hand there, Mr Ryans.’
At least that’s something, I think as the door closes behind me; KC John Harrison, the crème de la crème, is willing to stake his reputation on Gregory and our lies.
When I return to the room, the two most important men in my life are standing face to face.
‘I’m glad we understand each other,’ Gregory says.
John dips his head then turns to me. ‘Pleasure to see you again, Scarlett.’
‘And you, John, thank you.’
We shake hands then Gregory’s palm is on the small of my back, guiding me on a quick march back along the antique corridors to the Lamborghini.
He opens the passenger door and closes it behind me once I’m seated.
Then he climbs into the driver side, flicks the paddle gears and skids us out of the street at a dangerous speed.
He jabs his fingers at the touch screen in the centre of the dashboard and a dial-out tone fills the sound system, followed by Jackson’s voice. ‘Everything okay?’
‘Are you home?’ Gregory asks abruptly.
‘On my way back from seeing Sandy; Ken picked me up.’
‘We need to talk. I’ll be ten.’
‘See you then.’
I glance at Gregory’s stern face and decide it would be best if I stay quiet. Instead, I watch as we fly through Camden Borough, buildings fading into blurred lines of lights against the already darkening afternoon sky, back to the Southside of the Thames.
Jackson is waiting on a stool at the breakfast bar when we get to the apartment. Gregory takes off his coat and scarf and throws them over the back of another stool. ‘Let’s go to my office.’
Jackson moves to stand and pushes an arm into his crutch.
‘It’s fine,’ I say, trying to hide the fact that I feel like a patronised child. ‘Stay here. I’m going to take a bath.’
I leave them to it, unsure how many more emotional missiles I can withstand in one day.
After squeezing way more bubbles than necessary into the bath, I dim the lights.
When the water is almost at the brim, I sink myself under the thick clouds.
Adopting the position my yoga teacher makes me take at the beginning of a class, I place my hands on my ribcage and concentrate on expanding my lungs to their full capacity on each inhale.
I lie in that position until the water becomes tepid.
Five to seven days. One week, 168 hours, until the damning ballistics report will come.