Apple Tree Yard (32 page)

‘Exhibit One, ladies and gentlemen, this is what I shall be referring to as the map bundle. May I invite you to turn to the first page?’

In the folder is a series of maps. The first of them is small scale: it shows the location of Craddock’s flat in South Harrow, and then the locations of your house and mine – each with a straight line leading to a wide margin that gives our addresses: you live in Twickenham, me in Uxbridge. Subsequent maps are larger in scale and show the exact location of Craddock’s flat in his street. Some of the maps have small rectangular pictures from CCTV footage to one side, joined by another straight line.

The prosecution counsel takes the court through these maps, one by one, explaining in detail how long it would take to walk between the locations, how long to drive, the exact locality of Tube stops and bus services, the location and names of nearby shops. ‘Smoke and mirrors,’ Robert will later say to me, dismissively. ‘The prosecution have to produce lots of facts. Juries all watch TV. They expect facts, hard facts, so the prosecution gives them lots of them even when they are not remotely relevant.’

Once this is done, Mrs Price lowers the register of her voice a note or two, and says to the jury, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I invite you now to turn to the second folder, Exhibit Two, the one I shall be referring to as the graphics bundle.’ We are about to realise why she has slowed down slightly, become more low-key, demure even. ‘I have to ask you to resist the temptation to flick through these graphics as I wish to explain each one in turn.’

The first graphic is a diagram of a flesh-coloured body, the upper torso, naked and bald, like a tailor’s dummy. As I turn the page to it, I notice from the corner of my eye that you are not opening your folder like I am. You are staring straight ahead.

‘I must now take you through the injuries sustained by Mr Craddock on that Saturday afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, injuries sustained, I shall be demonstrating, only a matter of minutes after he concluded that last phone call to his disabled father, and at the hands of the man you see sitting in the dock, with the encouragement and collusion of the woman sitting beside him.’

Marked on the flesh-coloured body of the diagram in front of me is a series of bruises that have been drawn or Photoshopped on to it, startlingly exact and lifelike nonetheless. There are bruises to the upper body that look wide and diffuse, greyish in tone. There is a livid red mark on the forehead, a purplish bruise on the cheek. The lips are lacerated, the nose clearly flattened and broken. There is a strong red mark across the neck.

On subsequent pages, there are pictures of just the head, one in profile, that shows an ear badly lacerated with a part of the lobe detached.

Looking down at the graphics, turning the pages one by one, Mrs Price lists the injuries sustained by George Craddock. On his torso was a series of bruises consistent with his having been stamped on while lying prone on the floor – imprints from the soles of trainers are clearly marked. His skull was fractured – cause of death was a swelling to the brain. His nose was broken. His lips and his right ear both had substantial lacerations. Four of his front teeth had been smashed.

After she has listed these injuries, there is a silence in the courtroom. I sit in the dock, staring straight ahead, just as you are. Whatever excitement has been engendered by the start of our trial, the ritual of the swearing in, the melodrama of the prosecution’s opening statement, all that is stilled now by this: a man has died horribly.

‘I would like now to call the first witness, Dr Nathan Witherfield.’ The usher exits the court.

Dr Witherfield is perkier than you would expect a Home Office pathologist to be. He is tall, with beaky features, a bright voice and eager demeanour. He reads the oath loudly and confidently. He declines the offer to sit down. His job is merely to verify what prosecuting counsel has just told us, the nature of the injuries sustained. As an expert witness, he is allowed to speculate, to give his opinion, in a way other witnesses are not, but his opinion appears to be no more than stating the obvious.

‘Is your name Dr Nathan Witherfield?’

‘Yes it is.’

‘And are you…?’ through a series of questions, his credentials are established. It is only then that he is invited to turn to the jury bundle, the large white lever arch file.

Mrs Price addresses the jury: ‘If I can invite you to open it at the same time, and I have to ask you to turn to the photographs behind divider four, page twelve, and I must ask you again to resist the temptation to flick ahead through the pictures: it’s important that I explain to you what you are seeing as you see it.’

Clicking sounds fill the court as everyone flicks the metal levers on their large white files and then, as we all turn the pages, there is a great wafting, as if a flock of giant birds is flying around, gulls perhaps. For a few moments, it drowns the drone of the ineffective air conditioning. The prosecution counsel allows us all to settle and consider the photographs. Like your graphics folder, your jury bundle remains closed.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, I apologise in advance if any of you find this part of the evidence distressing. In most of the photos, the victim’s face has been blacked out, in order to avoid the more alarming elements of his injuries.’

These are not graphics. These are colour photographs of George Craddock in his flat, lying on his back, most of his body in the sitting room but his head close to the kitchenette. His face has been blacked out to allow him some dignity in death but his T-shirt and jeans are clearly visible, one leg of the jeans rucked up to reveal a white calf, and on both feet, grey socks, leather slippers. Around him is the place where he lived. Behind his body, the opening to a kitchenette; smart white units with wooden handles, a fridge freezer and gas hob. Other pictures we see later will show us a brown leather sofa with African-style print cushions in brown and orange; photographs on the wall of wildlife, a leopard on the prowl, a soaring eagle; a large white towel left on the seat of a modern dining chair, papers and books scattered across a glass-topped dining table with a cereal bowl and mug and spoon still sitting at the other end. Behind the dining table are alcoves of books. It is quite a smart bachelor flat, a brave attempt to make a rental property in a run-down area look desirable. It works, to a certain extent – plenty of people in London live a lot worse. But something troubles me about this glimpse at Craddock’s life and eventually I get it: it’s the cereal bowl. Craddock was a respectable, educated man, a lecturer with books on his shelves, but the cereal bowl still sitting on his dining table in the afternoon hints at self-neglect, I think.

The prosecution counsel invites us to alternate between the graphics bundle and the photographs in the jury bundle in order to go through Craddock’s injuries in more detail. When she gets to the neck injury, she says to the pathologist, ‘And can you tell me, Dr Witherfield, what kind of force would have been needed to cause this level of injury to the neck area here?’

‘Yes,’ says the eager pathologist, ‘it would have to be blunt trauma injury of some force, consistent with stamping while the victim was in a supine position, face up that is, on the floor.’

‘And how can you tell the force would have been considerable?’

‘Well, the bruising of course. And his voice box was shattered. In order to sustain that level of injury, I would say that the victim was immobile on the floor, and that the person applying the force would perhaps have been jumping as he, or she, stamped on him.’

It is an electrifying sound, hardly describable in words. A kind of ‘
Aaargh
…’ but high-pitched and involuntary, breathy with effort, almost a gargle. Everybody’s head swivels to where Craddock’s father is sitting in his wheelchair in the far corner of the court, nearest the door. The judge glances fiercely. The people sitting in the public gallery lean forward – they can hear a strange noise but not see who is making it. The rest of us stare. The police officer sitting next to Craddock’s father has her hand on his arm and is leaning right into him, very close, speaking softly, attempting to calm him, but his cry goes on and on, so much so that I think for a moment he is verbally disabled as well as wheelchair-bound and this is his only form of speech. Then he shouts, ‘George! George, my boy! Georgie!’ and I glance at the judge who is frowning but DI Cleveland is on his feet and shouldering his way over. He and the other officers surround Craddock’s father, turn him in his wheelchair, pushing him from the court, but his cry can be heard fading out into the hall as he goes.

 The court breaks for lunch not long after. The clerk calls, ‘All rise!’ and we rise as the judge processes out. The barristers lean back in their seats, stretch their arms. The police officers form a cluster by the door, talking quietly. The Family Liaison Officer has come back into court without Craddock’s father and is shaking her head as she talks to the other officers. The dock officer next to me touches my elbow and I turn to go down to the cells without looking back at you.

Back in my concrete coffin with its yellow and blue paint, they bring me lunch: grey meatballs sitting in a puddle of inert brown gravy. I pick at a few grains of rice that are on the side. I take a small bite from a triangle of white bread with margarine smeared on it, then I gag, and the shred of bread comes up again immediately, like a small piece of leather I’m unable to digest. I swallow it down, take a sip of water from the plastic cup, then I put the tray of food on the bench next to me, lean back against the concrete wall and close my eyes, the strangled cry of George Craddock’s father filling my head, the reality of your actions forming a picture in front of me that seems so obscene, so unlike what I know of you, that I can scarcely comprehend it, even as my imagination contorts your handsome face into a mask of hatred and rage.

*

After lunch, your barrister, young Ms Bonnard, gets to her feet to cross-examine the pathologist. Here is a quirk of the system that I find odd – this is the first we will hear of any defence, the questioning of a witness, but unlike the prosecution, there is no opening statement at this point – that will come later – so as Ms Bonnard gets to her feet, we have no idea what her line of argument is, the point of her questions.

The point of her questions remains obscure to me. She asks the pathologist to estimate how long it would take death to occur due to the blunt trauma injury Craddock received. Then she raises some technical points about swelling to the brain, establishes that although he can estimate, in fact the margin is quite wide. She establishes that it is impossible to say precisely which of the blows to the head that Craddock received would have caused the swelling to the brain – he also had an injury to the back of his head that would have occurred when he fell against the floor.

If, as I think, she is trying to imply that his death might have been accidental, then at this stage my frank opinion is that she is on a hiding to nothing – the severity of his injuries make clear it was a concerted attack.

Craddock’s father is back in court, still in his wheelchair, the Family Liaison Officer next to him. Robert my barrister tells me later that the judge would have complained to the police that any further interventions by the father could prejudice the trial, and that if he does not keep quiet, he will be excluded from the court. He will remain impassive from that point, but his presence is a potent one.

Eventually, Ms Bonnard says, ‘Thank you, Dr Witherfield, if you would remain where you are for a moment.’ She turns to the judge, giving a slight bow. ‘No further questions, My Lord.’ She sits.

Robert, my barrister, stands. ‘My Lord, I have no questions for this witness.’ He sits again.

The judge turns to Dr Witherfield. ‘Thank you, Doctor, you’re free to go. May I please remind you not to discuss this case or the evidence you have given with anyone?’

The doctor nods efficiently and descends the steps.

Some of the jury are looking at Robert. They are giving him slightly quizzical glances, the like of which will be repeated in his direction several times during the prosecution case. I can see them wondering why he had no questions for Dr Witherfield. I might have wondered myself had Robert not explained his strategy to me beforehand. We will keep our powder dry, he said. We let the other defence team lead, draw the fire, so to speak. It will only emphasise that Mr Costley is the perpetrator here, not you. So we won’t be questioning the pathologist or any of the prosecution’s witnesses. You were an innocent bystander so why should we need to question them? We will cement that in the jury’s mind by
not
cross-questioning.’ The only witness Robert will be calling during my entire case is me. 

18

The second day of our trial also consists of forensics. This is not the way I had anticipated it: I had imagined the prosecution would have concentrated first on presenting our motives, blackening our characters, building up all the while to our horrid act. But no, on the second day, we get the blood splatter expert.

I am able to be more detached today. Already, on day two, I am ceasing to see Craddock as a person: he is an exhibit. I don’t think this is just because of my hatred of him: it is to do with the reductive process his life and death have undergone. This is what happens when we are dead. We become a series of facts. Only now and then do I catch a glimpse of the reality of Craddock and it is always in an unexpected detail. In the graphics bundle, there are two sketches of a full-length tailor’s-dummy-style figure, side by side on facing pages. One is you, dressed in the clothing that was discovered in a plastic bag dumped in a park bin two miles from your house. It is the navy-blue jogging bottoms, the first pair, and grey T-shirt you were wearing when I picked you up at the Tube station that day. Most of the blood was on the dark jogging bottoms, not visible with the naked eye, but marked on the sketch with a line to a box describing them. There are some spots of blood on the grey T-shirt, and these are marked in graphics but there is also an expanded photograph of the T-shirt with the spots ringed in pen. They are a brownish, salmon-colour, but clearly visible.