The Witness: A Novel (38 page)

He hoped desperately that she wouldn’t cry. Her tears after she was shot had moved him to comfort her, and in a heartbeat it had changed everything. He had been unprofessional. He’d heard of other officers taking witnesses, even suspects on occasion, into their beds. That was not possible with this woman, not now, when her full concentration needed to be on her testimony, and possibly not ever. He was a weary thirty-seven years old, she a fragile twenty-three.

The musical soundtrack was still playing, and its romantic music made it difficult for him to show restraint. He reached for the remote and stopped the recording. She looked calm and relaxed. Yes, he was more in control this time. “Sergeant Casey will be along soon,” he said.

“We’d better clean up then.” They were in the kitchen when the knock on the door came.

“Thank you for this evening.” She stood on her tiptoes, and he felt her lips, soft on his cheek. Very quickly he cupped her face in his hands and bent down to kiss her. Why hadn’t he done it before, when he
wouldn’t have had to hurry? He straightened and saw her smile. That would have to satisfy him for now. She would be in court in three days.

After she left, he thought about her. It had been a long time since he’d valued a woman’s kiss. Since his divorce, he hadn’t looked for love. Sexual attraction had been sufficient, and he’d expected far more than kisses from the other women who had been in this flat. He was a confident man, and he’d never before considered it remarkable when a woman he fancied responded to him. Strange—instead of comparing Jenny to other women, he was comparing other women to her.

I
n spite of the men’s efforts to keep a low profile, Jenny knew that her time to testify was approaching, and their reluctance to discuss their plans made her even more nervous. It was a relief when Sergeant Casey sat down with her Sunday afternoon and explained the schedule and the measures they would take to keep her safe during the big event.

“Have I lost my readiness? I haven’t exercised. And I need new spark plugs. I don’t have any get-up-and-go.”

“You have residual readiness, love. And the B-12 jabs should help. Roll up your sleeve.”

Per his instructions, she packed an overnight bag with her clothes for court, toiletries, and linens. Fortunately there was room for her London policeman teddy bear, so she could have a stuffed bodyguard as well as stuffy bodyguards. She’d have to spot bathe in the judge’s bathroom. The men would use Davies’ flat, since it was closest to the court, and Davies and Hunt would sleep there. She wore her workout clothes and planned to sleep in them. The men were already wearing their body armour. Sergeant Casey adjusted hers carefully.

“I love this stuff,” she said, trying to control the trembling in her voice. “I think I’ll get some in every color.”

They departed after dinner. It was raining fast, and the men were pleased. The bad weather would limit the number of persons on the street and reduce the visibility of any souls brave enough to venture into the downpour. In Texas they’d call it a frog-choker, but she knew better than to say anything aloud.

They didn’t want to attract any attention, so there was no shadow car. Jenny rode with Casey, Davies, and Hunt in a nondescript vehicle, Andrews behind the wheel. She’d observed the other men at work: Sergeant Andrews was the revelation. She had seen Andrews the interrogator, logical, thorough, and direct. She had enjoyed the Andrews who gossiped and played Christmas games. She remembered a bland, affable Andrews unintimidated by the defence solicitor. Now she saw an Andrews as mute and focused as Sergeant Casey.

They saw no one near the courthouse as they approached. Andrews drove within a few feet of the rear entrance. The courthouse employed its
own security men, Casey had told her, but plain-clothes officers would be expecting them. They waited inside the car while Hunt knocked on the door. Sergeant Andrews kept the motor running, and Brian and Sergeant Casey watched the street. When the courthouse door opened, Brian exited the right rear door of the vehicle. He opened Casey’s door, his eyes sweeping the area while Casey reached for her hand. It felt safe in the car. Outside it was too dark to see a threat coming. “Now, Jenny,” The Voice said when she didn’t move. He and Brian kept her between them, and Sergeant Andrews didn’t pull away until the courthouse door had closed behind them.

There was a lift just inside the door, but Sergeant Casey directed her past it. “We’ll take the stairs,” he said. “Try to keep up.” She couldn’t, not with Brian’s long, rapid strides. “Move it, Jenny,” Casey commanded, pushing against her back. Frightened by his urgency, she broke into a run, clasping her overnight bag to her chest. She could hear Hunt behind her, barely managing to keep his excitement in check. When they were inside the judge’s chambers, Casey rang Sinclair. “Phoenix has landed,” he said. “Call the backup units into position.”

A short while later Sinclair rang back. “I reached Judge Thomas. Court will convene at half ten tomorrow morning. I’ll see you before then. Good luck.”

It was a long night. Armed police identified themselves when they arrived and were positioned outside the door to the judge’s chambers. Occasionally Jenny was reassured by the sound of their voices or the sight of the shadows of their shoes under the door. She had never been in a judge’s chambers, and she was surprised to find that the space was crowded with a desk, sofa, and two chairs. She found medical supplies in the small bathroom; Sergeant Casey was prepared for the worst. “Am I safe here?” she asked him.

“This place is crawling with coppers, not just outside our door. Some uniformed, some not. You’ll be okay.”

“Will they shoot?”

“They’ve been fully briefed.”

“Will—they—shoot?”

“If necessary, yes.”

He brought her a sleeping pill, and she lay down on the sofa with her bear and her blanket, but she was afraid, and sleep would not come. She missed Danny terribly, knowing that even in this situation he would have pierced the dread with his lightheartedness. She had learned the Twenty-third Psalm, as Padre Goodwyn had suggested, but she could not concentrate sufficiently for the words to register, so she prayed for Danny instead—to wake up, to laugh, to be himself. She prayed the trial would be worth what it had cost.

She left the light on in the bathroom, but there was no radio, and it was terribly quiet. The men had pushed the desk against one wall to make room for Sergeant Casey’s sleeping bag, and she asked if she could sit next to him. “No, love, I’ll sit with you,” he said, so she made
room for him on the sofa and held his arm.

“After all this time, I can’t believe I’m finally here. Sergeant Casey, how am I going to get through it tomorrow?”

“The way all warriors do: by relying on your training.”

“What am I trained to do?”

“Communications and demolitions. Just tell what that bastard did to you, and you’ll destroy him.”

“Promise?”

“Yes. Jenny, you’ll be on point, but I’ll be there to cover you.”

“Promise?”

“Jenny,
yes
.”

The Voice reassured her, and she felt sleepy.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

When morning came, Andrews arrived with breakfast beverages and rolls. She sipped a little tea and wished that she had a Coke to settle her stomach. She changed into her hunter green wool suit in the adjoining bathroom. Davies and Hunt arrived. They waited.

Sinclair was admitted just before ten. “It won’t be long now.” He squeezed her cold hand and bent down to give her a light kiss on the cheek. “I’ll be sitting in the back,” he said and was gone.

Sergeant Andrews knocked. “It’s time.”

Casey came up behind her and took her arm. “
Coraggio
.”

“I love you guys,” she said, her voice breaking. “Even Hunt.”

They followed Andrews and the black-robed court usher down the corridor.

Success cannot be guaranteed.
There are no safe battles.

— Winston Churchill

“A
ll rise!” cut through the buzz of excitement in the crowded courtroom. Judge Wilfred Thomas entered and seated himself, waiting for the rustle to subside. “Call your next witness, Mr. Benjamin.”

“The Crown calls Miss Jennifer Catherine Jeffries.”

There was a slight pause, and Jenny entered through the usher’s door, her protection officers behind her. To her left and just a few feet away was the dock with Scott inside. She cast her eyes around the room, looking for the witness-box, and realized she’d have to walk past him to get there. Why was everyone so calm? Didn’t they know what he was capable of? She stopped, wanting a moment to quell the rising tide of panic. Almost immediately Sergeant Casey moved beside her, placing himself between her and the monster and using his hand to apply firm pressure to the small of her back. Her legs began to work again, and he escorted her to the witness-box as if that had been his prescribed role all along. He positioned himself on the wall to her right.

She was alone in the witness-box. Halladay had said that the monster would be seated in the dock, and he was, but she felt as if the balance of power had shifted and he were standing, not she. No one had told her how small she would feel and how vulnerable. There was a cramp in the pit of her stomach, and she leaned forward slightly and put a hand on the side of the box. She heard Sergeant Casey take a deep breath and let it out slowly, and she followed his example.

She had a good view of the entire courtroom. Moving her eyes to the left, she saw the judge, the jury, all staring at her, and Hunt by the door they’d just used. Her eyes ran across the public gallery above the dock and down again, finding Brian by the door at the back of the room, a clock on the blue-gray wall next to him. A group of individuals, some bespectacled, with pens poised, peered at her—the press. She spotted Colin, Sergeant Andrews, several other men in suits, and in front of them, the legal counsel. She felt unsteady on her feet and took another deep breath. Why did she have to stand? In the States, where they called it the witness stand, participants were seated during their testimony.

The clerk, looking bored already, approached her with the Bible, and she remembered suddenly a line of Carl Sandburg’s: “like I was one more witness it was work for him to give the oath to.” Her mouth dry, she swore that the evidence she was about to give was the truth, the
whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

One of the bewigged creatures stood, and she observed that none of the wigs were long enough to cover the sides of the head, nor were they really white, more the color of sheep’s wool. Some of them would be wolves in sheep’s clothing.

After bowing to the judge and the jury, the barrister, Peter Benjamin, introduced himself to her. He had deep lines on his thin face, as if he’d lost weight but not worries. He sounded friendly, almost conversational, as he confirmed her vital statistics and inquired about her life in Texas, and she realized that he was trying to put her at ease.

More questions about her background followed, covering her brothers’ activities growing up as well as her own, and their parents’ guidance and involvement in their lives. He was painting a picture of her, and he used a fine brush to portray a close-knit family that found time to take regular holidays and engage in other types of shared recreation. He rarely referred to notes, and no one interrupted him. He complimented her on her university performance and confirmed the date of her graduation. The morning had come to a close when he finally inquired about her purpose in coming to England.

After answering a series of questions about her activities between September 9 and 13, Jenny heard the judge’s voice.

“Mr. Benjamin, we are nearing the lunch interval,” he said. “I’d like to adjourn.”

“As your honour wishes.”

“We’ll reassemble at half one.”

She didn’t hear a gavel, just the usher’s voice intoning, “Will you all please be upstanding.”

When she turned to step out of the witness-box, Sergeant Casey was there to shield her, but the defendant had already left the dock when they passed it. They returned to Judge Lloyd’s chambers, where Sergeant Andrews was waiting with tea and sandwiches from the courthouse cafeteria.

“The hot courses weren’t ready yet, and the Coke machine is on the blink,” he reported.

She didn’t take more than two bites of the sandwich. It tasted like last week’s, and she felt more tired than hungry, so she slipped her shoes off and rested on the sofa with her feet elevated.

Hunt tossed his sandwich in the dustbin. “Come on, Davies. We can do better than this.”

Andrews must have thought so, too, because he hadn’t brought a sandwich for himself.

It was quiet. She was alone with Sergeant Casey, and it seemed seconds later when he shook her shoulder gently. “It’s gone one, love. Lads will be back soon.”

She sat up and rubbed her face. When she returned from the bathroom, she discovered that her shoes didn’t want to testify any more than she did. They wanted the afternoon off.

Shortly after Davies and Hunt returned, the call from the usher came.

W
hen they entered the courtroom, all eyes were on Jenny. Once again Sergeant Casey pushed her past the defendant. He helped her step up into the witness-box, where she was reminded of her oath.

“Mr. Benjamin, you may begin,” the judge said.

The prosecutor stood. “Miss Jeffries, what is your status in this country?”

She was tempted to reply that she was there to shop for more comfortable shoes, but she didn’t want to appear flippant. “I am a visitor.”

“You are here—and in this court—of your own free will?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Has anyone pressurised you to testify in this case?”

“No, sir.”

“Have you been in contact with the press or any members of the media?”

“No, sir.”

“Have you been offered any sort of compensation by anyone for your story?”