Authors: Nick Stone
Rudy Saks was due to give evidence first thing.
We filed into court.
As always, Judge Blumenfeld asked the barristers if they had any pending issues before he called the jury and let the public in.
Carnavale got to his feet.
‘My Lord, it appears that Rudy Saks has left the country.’
So he
wasn’t
the driver in the Megane.
The judge had two faces; one for the jury, another for us. When addressing the former, he was charm personified, speaking to them with humility and respect, as if they were his equals – which, of course, in here they almost were. With us he was the incoming storm, thunder massing in his pendulous jowls.
That’s what Carnavale was getting from him now.
‘
When
did he leave the country?’
‘Saturday, My Lord.’
‘It’s Thursday today, Mr Carnavale. Why am I only hearing about this now?’
‘The police were initially unaware he’d left. They’d made numerous attempts to contact Mr Saks about his court appearance. When he didn’t respond, they went to his address yesterday and were told that he’d had a family emergency in Portugal. His mother is apparently terminally ill.’
‘How was he allowed to
leave
?’
‘We’re looking into that, My Lord.’
The judge beckoned his clerk over and whispered something. She picked up the phone and made another of her silent calls.
‘I’ve issued a summons for his immediate return.’
If witnesses fail to appear in court a judge can force them to attend and give evidence. If they don’t come of their own free will, the police drag them to the stand. Not that there was any way that was going to happen with Saks. The summons was as good as nominal. Saks probably wasn’t even in Portugal any more. He was in the wind.
According to Janet, Saturday’s events wouldn’t affect the trial, because none of my three kidnappers were directly linked to Evelyn’s murder – at least not yet. Their only connection was the house one of them had shared with Saks, and that wasn’t proof of anything.
Still, Saks’s no-show was great for us. A major pillar in the prosecution’s case had been kicked away.
Christine didn’t react, but Redpath gave me a discreet thumbs-up.
‘Are your other witnesses already in the building, Mr Carnavale?’
‘They are, My Lord.
‘Let’s proceed then, shall we?’
The nightclub CCTV footage was cued up on the courtroom flatscreen.
Carnavale called two waitresses who worked at the club. Eastern European, pretty, pert, twenties, hair scraped back. Swayne and I hadn’t interviewed either of them.
Waitress 1: Dead nervous, voice like stilettos stamping on sheet metal
.
She saw VJ and Evelyn talking for ‘a while’.
Why did she notice them in particular?
‘Because of her dress. Green is an unusual colour to wear at night.’
Christine cross-examined. How long did Waitress 1 see them together?
‘Only for a second.’
‘But you said you saw them talking “for a while”.’
‘They looked like two people in the middle of a conversation.’
‘I think what
actually
happened is you only looked at them for a second, before you went about your business? Would that be a fair comment?’ Christine says.
‘Yes. I think that’s how it was.’
‘So, you only assumed they’d been talking for a while?’
‘Yes,’ the waitress said. Then she looked at Carnavale, blushing scarlet. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘We all make mistakes,’ Christine said.
Carnavale let that one go, called Waitress 2.
She was a lot more confident. She saw VJ and Evelyn ‘dancing together, really close, like a couple’.
Christine asked her if she remembered the conga line bursting through the door. She did.
Christine played the video, narrating for the jury. The dancers came in-between the bar and where Evelyn was standing, so the waitress couldn’t have seen her.
She saw what happened
after
Evelyn had been knocked over by the conga line and fell on top of VJ. Then they both got up, and he might have helped her to her feet, or been checking that she was all right.
Waitress 2 insisted she saw them ‘slow dancing’.
Christine played the rest of the tape. Evelyn left the club, one hand clutching at her torn dress strap. Christine pointed to the timer and said that less than four minutes elapsed between Evelyn getting knocked over and her leaving the club. So they either weren’t ‘dancing’ like the waitress thought, or it was the fastest slow dance in history. That got a laugh from the public and a smile from half the jury. They were warming to her, I noticed.
The waitress said she was sure of what she saw.
Christine knew the rest of the video showed Jonas Dichter following VJ out of the club, but she couldn’t raise it in court, because it proved nothing.
‘No further questions.’
At lunch, Redpath told Christine he thought it was going well – better than well, even.
‘Trials are won one day at a time. Every trial has a tipping point, a moment when you know which way it’s going to go. We’re not there yet,’ she said.
Then I sensed I was being stared at. I followed the sensation to a small old man in a thick, battered grey tweed jacket, unshaven and sweaty-faced, the remains of his hair clinging unkempt to his temples. He was sitting alone, an open Tupperware container in front of him, unwrapping a tin foil package. He was looking right at me.
DCI Reid was sitting next to him. She was staring at me too.
Gary Murphy was the last witness of the day. Redder and rounder than when I’d last met him, he gave me a nod as he passed. I didn’t reciprocate.
Carnavale started with a couple of scene-setting questions, and then cut to the chase.
‘Please tell the court what happened on the night of March 16th?’
‘It’d been a very quiet night, only two or three customers. Around half-eleven or thereabouts he came in —’
‘Who?’
‘The fella in the dock.’
‘Vernon James?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Was he with anyone?’
‘Yeah, a woman. Tall, blonde, green dress.’
The court clerk passed Murphy a photo.
‘Was that her?’ Carnavale asked, and then turned to the jury. ‘For the record: the witness has just been handed a police photograph of Evelyn Bates post-mortem.’
‘I never really saw her face,’ Murphy said.
Carnavale’s mouth was poised to launch his next question – lips quarter-parted and puckered into a tense moue. Then his brain registered the words that had passed through his ears. He blinked a couple of times, looked down at the lectern, his brow corrugating.
‘That’s not what you said in your police statement.’
‘That’s
exactly
what I said.’
‘Not according to this,’ Carnavale said, holding up his statement. ‘DS Fordham showed you that photograph of the victim and asked you, “Is this the woman you saw him with?” – to which you replied, “Yes”.’
‘That’s not what I
said
, though. I said, “Yes. Maybe. But I didn’t get a look at her face.” The copper must’ve stopped at “Yes.”’
‘Mr Murphy, you
signed
the statement, acknowledging it to be true,’ Carnavale said. He was keeping his cool, but the edge of his neck and the backs of his ears were starting to flare up.
‘I read it quickly, skimmed it really,’ Murphy said.
‘Why?’
‘I was busy. He interviewed me at work. There were customers to serve. Anyway, I trusted the bloke. He’s a copper, right?’
Mild laughter from the public.
‘Are you therefore now telling me – telling this court – that you
didn’t
see Evelyn Bates – the woman in the picture – with the man before you, in the dock?’
‘I’m not saying I did, I’m not saying I didn’t,’ Murphy said. ‘It might’ve been her, but I didn’t get a look at her face.’
‘And you served them at 11.30 that night?’
‘I served the fella. The woman went and sat in the corner.’
‘And you saw them leave together?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What time was this?’
‘Around midnight.’
Carnavale sat down, took a deep breath, and exhaled it back as a long pissed-off sigh. His junior said something to him, which earned her a sharp look.
Christine rose. She asked the court clerk to hand the witness Exhibit 17 – the Facebook photo of Evelyn Bates in her green dress, taken on her iPhone before she went out to the hen party. A copy of the photo was also handed to the jury. She waited until the foreman had it before she started speaking.
‘Was this the woman you saw with Vernon James?’
‘No.’
‘You’re absolutely sure of that?’ Christine said.
‘Absolutely sure,’ Murphy said. ‘The woman I saw the fella with was tall. She had long straight blonde hair, past her shoulders. And then there was her dress… It was down to her ankles with this split up the thigh. You saw most of her leg, most of the thigh. And the back was exposed too. And… erm… the dress was… it was pretty darn tight. Like paint.’
‘Paint?’
‘Like she’d painted it on, if you know what I mean,’ Murphy said, embarrassed.
The public guffawed. The judge smirked. The Asian juror covered her mouth to giggle.
Christine asked for copies of the forensics photos of Evelyn’s dress to be given to both the witness and the jury.
‘Was it this dress?’
‘No. Nothing like it. The only thing in common was the colour, but even
that
was different. The blonde I saw, her dress was
dark
green. This one here’s wrong.’
‘How?’
‘It’s got a back for a start. And it’s too short. The one I saw was more like a gown or something.’
‘When you say the woman you saw with Mr James was tall, how tall would you estimate her to be?’
‘About his height,’ Murphy said, nodding in VJ’s direction.
‘Vernon James is six foot two. So was she roughly that tall?’
‘Yeah, I’d say, give or take.’
‘What about her build?’
‘Fit.’
‘As in athletic?’
‘And that.’
More laughter. Even the judge chortled.
‘So she was curvaceous?’
‘Yeah… well fit.’
‘One further question – did you notice anything in particular about Mr James. About his appearance?’
‘Yeah, he was in a bit of a state. Dishevelled. His suit was dirty – damp, like he’d had something thrown on him. And he had scratches on his face too.’
‘Where?’
‘On his cheek,’ he said. ‘Oh, and he seemed a bit pissed – I mean, drunk. He was slurring his words.’
‘Thank you.’
She sat down.
Most of the jury made notes.
Carnavale got up for the cross.
‘Mr Murphy, would you care to tell the court about your conviction for perjury?’
Murphy gawped in shock.
The public muttered.
Christine was taken aback. Redpath too.
As were judge, jury, court clerk and even the stenographer.
I was confused. Was Carnavale
attacking
his own witness?
‘In 2007 you were convicted for lying under oath during an insurance fraud trial, were you not? You served six months in prison,’ Carnavale said.
‘I… I… I… errr…’
Christine stood up. The judge waved her to sit down.
‘Mr Carnavale,
what
are you doing?’ the judge asked.
‘My Lord, the witness contradicted his statement, and I’m trying to determine the reason why.’
‘He is
your
witness.’
‘But, My Lord, this concerns his credibility.’
‘Of
your
witness?’ The judge was incredulous.
‘Yes.’
‘Mr Carnavale. This is
your
case. Therefore it’s
your
responsibility to determine the credibility of
your
witnesses
before
you bring them to court – not
while
they’re in court. Secondly, as you
knowingly
put a convicted perjurer on the stand, I don’t think you’re in any kind of position – moral, legal or otherwise – to cross-examine him about his past. Now, unless you have any questions relating directly to the matter
at hand
, then please ask the witness. If not, I will discharge him.’
Carnavale stood there, glowering at the barman for a good few seconds. The jury watched the stand-off with glee. The foreman had his mouth open. He’d be dining out on this one for a good long while.
‘No further questions.’
‘You may step down,’ the judge said to Murphy.
The barman walked away, shaken.
There was a buzz of voices from the press and public gallery.
I shot VJ a quick look. He was impassive, but the big guard behind him was fighting back a gale of laughter.
‘Mr Carnavale, see me in chambers. Court is dismissed until tomorrow morning at ten.’
The judge banged his gavel and it sounded like an explosion.
VJ couldn’t hide his happiness at the way things were going, at that glimpse of freedom coming out from under the horizon like a blessed sunrise after a long night. He entered the cramped meeting room in a top of the morning good mood.
His jolliness fell away in big chunks when he heard our news:
‘Ahmad Sihl may be testifying against you today,’ Christine said.
‘
What?
’
‘The prosecution wants to call him as a witness.’
We’d only found out an hour ago, when Carnavale had told us.
‘Why?’ VJ said, staying on his feet.
‘The prosecution contends that Ahmad Sihl paid off women on your behalf – women you allegedly battered. They’ll use it to bolster their argument that you believe your wealth puts you above and beyond everybody, that you’ll always be able to buy your way out of potential trouble.’
‘Well that’s obviously not the fucking case, is it?’
‘Focus, Vernon, focus,’ Christine said. ‘This is happening whether you like it or not. I’m going to need any ammunition you can give me. Stuff I can throw at Ahmad, to undermine his credibility.’
We lost the legal argument. The judge ruled that Ahmad Sihl could give evidence. He’d be heard this afternoon.
After the public had taken their seats, Carnavale called his first witness.
‘Dr Louis Martindale.’
‘Who’s that?’ I whispered to Redpath.
‘Vernon’s doctor.’
‘His
doctor
?’
‘They entered his medical records into evidence.’
‘
When?
’
‘June.’
When I’d been grounded and kept out of the loop.
Martindale was a tanned slip of a man in his forties. He’d come to court in a double-breasted pinstripe suit with a crisp, bright white handkerchief capping the breast pocket. The heaviest, bulkiest thing about him was his hair, which was so thick and helmet-like I wondered if it wasn’t really a wig.
‘How long have you been practising, Dr Martindale?’ Carnavale asked.
‘Just shy of twenty years.’
‘Is your practice public or private?’
‘A bit of both.’
‘How long has Vernon James been your patient?’
‘Fifteen years. We met when he was in the City.’ The doctor’s voice was deep and family-tree posh, his manner respectful yet relaxed, perfectly at ease in his surroundings.
‘And is he a private patient of yours?’
‘Yes.’
‘How often do you see him?’
‘A minimum of twice a year. Mr James has a full body check-up every six months.’
‘Is he in good health?’
‘Generally, yes, although he occasionally suffers from anxiety attacks.’
‘Can you please describe – in general terms –what you mean by “anxiety attacks”?’
‘Sudden onsets of tension, worry, irritability. Symptoms also include an accelerated heart rate, heightened blood pressure and headaches.’
‘What triggers these attacks?’
‘From what I understood from him, it was work-related. It’s a fairly common condition in the world of finance.’
‘Did you prescribe any medication to Mr James?’
‘Yes.’
‘What?’
‘Flunitrazepam.’
‘Does it have a more common name?’
‘Rohypnol.’
Collective whispers fizzed and hissed around the public gallery like jets of steam waking a nest of snakes.
‘Would you usually prescribe Rohypnol to someone suffering anxiety attacks?’
‘No. I’d choose a milder sedative.’
‘Why did you prescribe Rohypnol to Mr James?’
‘He requested it. He told me he’d had a similar episode in America a few months before, and that he’d been given Rohypnol by a doctor there. He said it solved the problem.’
‘When was this?’
‘In 2007.’
‘Was it the only time you prescribed Rohypnol to Mr James?’
‘No. There were two other occasions. In 2009, and in February of this year.’
Carnavale asked for Exhibit 21 to be shown to the witness.
The court clerk passed the doctor a small white cardboard box in a clear sealed evidence bag.
‘Let the record show that the witness has been handed a box of Rohypnol tablets recovered from the accused’s office during a police search of the premises on March 17th. The item was found in the bottom drawer of his desk. There were originally twenty-four tablets in the box. Three were missing,’ Carnavale said. ‘Dr Martindale, is that the Rohypnol you prescribed to the accused in February?’
Martindale turned the bag over and looked at it.
‘Yes. It has the address of my surgery on the back.’
The clerk passed the bag to the jury. The crime writer had a
good
look at it.
‘Did you have any reason to believe your patient was lying when he said he had anxiety issues?’
‘No,’ he said.
‘So when he said he specifically needed Rohypnol, because he’d been prescribed it before, you believed him?’
‘I had no reason to disbelieve him.’
‘Did you subject him to a check-up of any kind, before prescribing the drug?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘He showed me the Rohypnol he’d been given in America. It was a legitimately prescribed item.’
‘Thank you.’
Carnavale sat down.
I helped Christine to her feet.
‘You said anxiety attacks are not uncommon among people working in the financial sector. By that I take it you’ve treated others working in that field?’
‘I have, and I continue to do so.’
‘What other common ailments have you treated them for?’
‘Depression, insomnia, stress disorders.’
‘Have you ever prescribed Rohypnol to these patients?’
‘On a couple of occasions, yes.’
‘Why did you prescribe them Rohypnol specifically?’
‘I’d tried milder sedatives which hadn’t worked. Rohypnol is stronger and acts faster.’
‘So, in that context, Mr James’s request wasn’t odd – or uncommon?’
‘No,’ he said.
‘Rohypnol isn’t illegal, is it?’ she said.
‘As long as it’s on prescription, and used for its intended medical purpose.’
‘But it’s also classified as a Class C drug.’
‘Yes.’
‘Is there only one variety of Rohypnol available?’
‘There are three. The commercially available variety is 1mg in strength and is a green tablet, which gives off a blue dye and is harder to dissolve in liquid. This was introduced by the manufacturer as a safeguard to prevent the drug being used to spike drinks,’ he said. ‘There are also the laboratory variants, which come in either liquid form or as white tablets which dissolve very quickly and leave no physical trace. They’re also twice the strength.’
‘And which variety did you prescribe Mr James?’
‘The commercial kind, of course. I wouldn’t have access to the lab variants.’
‘So, the green tablet?’
‘Yes.’
‘And was he given the green tablets in America?’
‘Yes.’
Christine let a few moments pass before she asked her next question.
‘Dr Martindale, does Rohypnol cause blackouts?’
‘Memory loss is a common side-effect, yes. Especially when the drug is mixed with alcohol.’
‘Do these memories return at all?’
‘Generally, yes. Depending on the individual, of course. It’s common for rape victims to wake up with little to no initial recollection as to what happened. Then, when the drug wears off, their recall gets better and better.’
‘How long does it take for the drug to wear off?’
‘Rohypnol is at its most potent in its first four to six hours. Then its effects start diminishing.’
‘No further questions.’ Christine sat down.
Dr Martindale left the witness box.
Carnavale was only calling one escort as a witness, as opposed to the three originally listed. He was making way for Ahmad Sihl, obviously confident in his testimony.
When Rachel Hudson walked into the courtroom, I immediately thought of how Fabia might’ve looked with blonde hair. She was the same type. Tall, long-haired, attractive but forbidding with it. She’d make your head turn and poke your eyes out for looking.
She was wearing a loose grey flannel suit that only slightly hinted at her curves. Her hair was scraped back tightly from her high forehead, exposing her full face, with its unlined brow and thin dark eyebrows. Before she took the oath, she stared right at VJ. I couldn’t quite fathom her look. Fear, loathing or gloating?
‘Ms Hudson, when did you first meet the accused?’ Carnavale asked.
‘In 2007,’ she said.
‘How did you meet?’
‘I was working for an escort service called Essence.’ Her voice was soft and demure.
‘Can you please explain for the record what being an escort entails?’
‘An escort service is a glorified dating agency,’ she said. ‘They set people up on dates.’
‘When you say “people”, you mean men?’
‘Usually, but not exclusively.’
‘Women also used the agency?’
‘Couples, occasionally. Husbands and wives, boyfriends and girlfriends.’
The middle-aged female juror winced. The foreman smiled. He was going to be dining out on
this
as well.
‘The way it works is that the agency introduces the client to the escort. The escort meets the client for a pre-agreed fee. If they get along and the escort chooses to, she’ll sleep with a client. Almost like a standard date.’
‘How did the accused find out about you?’
‘Via the agency’s website.’
‘Did you use your real name?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Everything about escorting’s fake. And you never know who you’re going to meet.’
The jury was riveted. The witness was good. Classy, respectable, obviously educated – not what they were expecting. She was the last person in the world you’d think was an escort. And listening to her now, she could be talking about any profession in the world
except
the oldest one going.
‘Please tell the court about your first meeting with Mr James.’
‘It happened in the bar of the Franklin Hotel in Docklands. We talked for a couple of hours.’
‘How did the meeting go?’
‘Very well. He was charming, funny. I was attracted to him. Genuinely.’
‘Did you have sex with him that night?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he pay you?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m an escort, not a prostitute.’
‘He
didn’t
pay you?’
‘No.’
‘You slept with him for
nothing
?’
‘An escort is paid for her time, not her body.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘If we have sex with a client, it’s at our own discretion.’
‘So you’re saying you’re
not
a prostitute?’
‘A prostitute guarantees sex, an escort does not. I slept with Mr James because I wanted to.’
Carnavale looked at his notes.
‘You weren’t
expected
to have sex with the client?’
‘If I charged for it, I’d charge a lot more than £500 an hour,’ she said.
Some laughter. Disapproving frowns from both female jurors. Smirks from the younger men.
‘Did you receive money directly from the man in the dock?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He gave me cash gifts.’
‘After you had sex?’
‘Yes. Sometimes before.’
‘How much?’
‘The first couple of times it was £1500. And then it went up – no pun intended.’
That earned her a few laughs from the press.
‘How many times did you meet the accused?’
‘Eight times.’
‘When?’
‘Between 2007 and 2008.’
‘Did you sleep with him on every occasion?’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘How would you describe your sexual relations with the accused?’
‘He was into rough sex.’
‘By “rough”, you mean violent?’
‘Yes. He slapped and choked me.’
‘He slapped and
choked
you? You mean he
strangled
you,’ Carnavale said.
‘Yes.’
There was absolute silence in the courtroom, as if the whole place had caught and held its breath as one. Not even the wood creaked.
I scanned the jury. The foreman glanced at VJ, the Asian woman bit her bottom lip, the writer looked from the witness stand to Carnavale, and then at us – at me. We locked eyes for a second before he flicked his eyes to the judge.
‘Did he do this to you every time?’ Carnavale asked.
‘Yes. The first few times he didn’t slap me that hard. They were more like heavy taps to the face. They stung a little, but that was it. Nothing serious,’ she said, batting her hand quickly back and forth, swiping the air. ‘But then it got worse. We’d agreed a safety word, something I’d say or shout if he was going too far. But he ignored it. Or said he hadn’t heard it. He went further and further, hitting me harder and harder, until he started giving me bruises and black eyes, and split my lip.’
‘But you kept on seeing him?’
‘He’d compensate me when he went too far. He’d give me £500 more. “To pay for the damages,” he’d say.’
‘You said he also choked you?’
‘Yes.’
‘From that very first date?’
‘Yes.’
‘How did he choke you?’
‘With his belt. He’d put it around my neck and pull it tight, when he was taking me from behind. Again, we’d agreed a safety sign, which he ignored. The last time I saw him, he almost killed me.’
‘In choking you?’
‘Yes. I kept signalling for him to stop. I thought I was going to die. I blacked out.’
‘Then what happened?’
‘I came to, on the floor, gasping for air, dizzy and in a lot of pain.’
‘What did he do?’
‘He asked if I was OK. I told him to get out and never contact me again,’ she said. ‘Then I took pictures of all my injuries with my mobile and went to hospital. He’d slapped me around that time too, even worse than before.’
‘Did you contact the police?’
‘No. The hospital did. The police came to see me, the next day.’
‘What did you tell them?’
‘I told them what had happened.’
‘Did you give them the accused’s name?’
‘Yes.’
‘How did you know his name? Did he tell you?’