‘My Lord, I call Sharon Gilbert.’
A gust of small movements disturbed the still air of the courtroom, as people coughed, shuffled papers, and leant forward to get the best view of the witness box. The court usher, a woman in a pink blouse and black robe, opened the door in the panelled wall at the back of the court. ‘Sharon Gilbert, please.’
At the barristers’ table in the well of the court, Sarah Newby leant forward, her fingers laced under her chin. This was the first time she would see the victim, the woman the prosecution said her client had raped. The woman whose evidence she would have to demolish, to keep Gary Harker out of prison. The woman whose reputation she would have to destroy, to continue the steady rise of her own. Sarah had been a qualified barrister for three years and this was her first rape case. A great opportunity, if she did well. The first step on the ladder to becoming a Queen’s Counsel, like the Crown Prosecution barrister, Julian Lloyd-Davies QC, who stood next to her facing the jury.
Lloyd-Davies placed his notes on the portable lectern which he had brought with him, and tapped a silver pencil on it nonchalantly as he waited for his witness to appear. Where Sarah was intent and nervous he appeared calm, relaxed and confident. The lectern, silver pencil, silk gown and expensive tailored suit were all signs of a status that Sarah both coveted and feared. Beside him sat his junior, James Morris, pen poised to take notes. I belong here, all these things said, this is my stage to command. Sarah felt like a novice beside him. Even in her best Marks and Spencer black suit, tight starched wing collar and bands, she was painfully conscious of how the black cotton of her gown marked her out as a junior barrister like James Morris, someone who would normally assist a QC in a case like this rather than lead it herself.
In front of the barristers sat the judge, his lordship Stuart Gray, raised high on his dias under the prancing lion and unicorn of the royal coat of arms. His long cadaverous face surveyed her from under his wig with drooping bloodhound eyes. He had once practised as a QC too, Sarah reflected gloomily, and before that no doubt attended one of England’s best public schools — perhaps the same one as Julian Lloyd-Davies.
Certainly he had not left school at fifteen and spent his teenage years, as Sarah had, bringing up a baby on one of the worst council estates in Leeds.
Sarah drew in a slow, deep breath and let it out again, tensing the muscles of her stomach as the butterflies danced within. ‘I’ve earned the right to do this and here I am,’ she thought. ‘They didn’t have to fight to get here, but I did. And if I win this time, it will be the best ever.’
A woman came through the door in the back of the court and looked about her uncertainly. She was a tall, slim woman in her late twenties, smartly dressed in a green suit with three quarter length sleeves. The waves in her long, bleached shoulder-length hair suggested hours of careful attention in front of the mirror. She entered the witness box and took the testament and card from the usher.
‘Take the book in your right hand and read the words on the card.’
‘I swear by Almighty God that the evidence I shall give shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.’
The words were clearly, almost defiantly spoken. Sarah watched as Sharon Gilbert handed the book and card back and looked around. Like many witnesses, she seemed struck with a sense of shock and wonder that she could actually be here, beneath the great domed roof and stucco pillars of York’s magnificent eighteenth-century courtroom. Or perhaps she was shocked by the audience of students and idlers in the public galleries, as well as the row of pressmen, all here to listen to the intimate evidence she would have to give.
Sarah watched carefully, trying to assess her character. Many witnesses were terrified by this court, and mumbled their way miserably through their evidence as though in a public library; others seemed to revel in the theatrical opportunities the public stage gave them. It looked as though Sharon Gilbert might be one of the latter. She could hardly fail, after all, to have read the pre-trial press publicity; she knew how important she was.
As Julian Lloyd-Davies began his introductory questions, designed to establish a few basic facts and put the witness at ease, Sarah Newby sat quite still at the table beside him, listening intently. What sort of person was she, this victim of a brutal, humiliating rape? Well-dressed, attractive, certainly — she had taken great care with her appearance today. The accent was local, however, uneducated; the way Sarah herself had spoken until she had learned to moderate her vowels at the Middle Temple. Probably most of the jury spoke as Sharon did.
More important was the sense of character that came through Sharon Gilbert’s voice. It was strong, clear, brash — the voice of a woman who knew her own mind, or thought she did; but was also afraid of contradiction and expecting it. One of life’s victims, perhaps, but not a submissive one; not someone who would break down in tears on the stand and have to be coaxed through her evidence as many rape victims did, Sarah thought.
She was glad of that, at least. From the moment she had been given this case, she had been concerned about what she might have to do in cross-examination. She was not worried that she might not be incisive or brutal enough; she believed she was good at that and hoped she was getting better all the time. In her three years of practice she had already taken several notable scalps. One defendant had left the box blustering vainly, entangled in his own deceit; a second had stood silent, unable to answer her final, devastating question; two more had wept. A surge of mixed pride and pity had flooded through her in those moments: pity, at the public humiliation she had inflicted; but far greater pride, that her own skill had won the case, and she could rejoice in her success in the vicious game played out in court.
But so far she had been lucky, for her victims had deserved it — burglars, a mugger, a fraudster, a brutal policeman.
A rape victim would very different. Sarah was enough of a feminist to have felt some initial reluctance about defending a man — particularly a violent petty criminal like Gary Harker — accused of rape; but as Lucy Sampson, her solicitor, had said, ‘if you don’t do it, a man will, and how will that help the victim?’ After all, everyone deserved a good defence, she told herself; if she was to be a proper barrister she must take what came; there could be no no-go areas. But that all had been in the abstract; now she was here, watching a woman prepare to tell the story of her brutal rape by the man it was Sarah’s job to defend.
To do that, she would have to divert some of the jury’s sympathy away from the victim to her client. And to herself. The witness might feel she was on stage; but the barristers controlled the drama. If the woman were shy or nervous it would be child’s play to humiliate her by dwelling on the physical details of the crime or her previous sexual morality — techniques practised by male lawyers over many years. But Sarah wanted to avoid this, if she could. A tearful victim, bullied by the defence lawyer, would only turn the jury’s sympathies even more against her client, who was an unpleasant enough thug in the first place.
But nonetheless, he denied rape; so it was Sarah’s job to test the truth of Sharon’s story with all the skill at her command. She was hugely relieved that her first impression was of a tough, forthright woman who would stand up to questioning.
‘Do you have children, Ms Gilbert?’ Lloyd-Davies enquired politely.
‘Yes, two. Wayne is seven and Katie’s four.’
‘I see. So they were both born some time before you met Gary Harker.’
‘Yes, he’s not their dad, thank God. He’d be rubbish as anyone’s dad.’
She didn’t say who their father was, Sarah noted, and Lloyd-Davies didn’t ask. But Sharon tossed her head and risked a swift glance at the jury, as though defying them to infer anything from the fact that the children’s father — or fathers — were no longer around. It had nothing to do with the case, after all. She was a mother, and she had been raped; that was all the jury needed to understand.
But there was more to it than that, as Sarah knew only too well. How could she not know, she who had been pregnant at fifteen? She knew why two young men in the jury gazed at Sharon with open admiration, while others looked away, avoiding her gaze. She even knew how that felt. She was certain that Sharon was promiscuous, and it was more than likely that she was, or had been, a prostitute — a game as old as the law. Once Sarah had flirted with that idea herself. Far less training, instant fees. I could have ended up like this, Sarah thought; proud of managing as a single mother, daring anyone to challenge me, defiant. And lonely as hell underneath.
So far, Sharon had looked everywhere in the court except at Sarah’s client, the man accused of raping her. It was as though he were a stucco pillar or a chair; her eyes slid past him without interest. But now Julian Lloyd-Davies mentioned him for the first time.
‘Could you tell the court where you first met the defendant, Gary Harker?’
‘Yes. It was at a club. The Gallery, in Castle Street. About two years ago’
‘And did a relationship then develop?’
‘Yes. He moved in with me.’
‘I see.’ Lloyd-Davies peered at her thoughtfully over his half-moon glasses. ‘By that you mean he lived together with you in your home, as though you were man and wife?’
‘He lived with me, yes. For about a year — something like that.’
‘I follow. And — to make things quite clear for the jury — during that year you slept in the same bed together, did you? And had regular sexual intercourse?’
‘Well he wasn’t just there for decoration, was he?’ Sharon seemed gratified by the ripple of amusement which greeted her answer. It was part of the age-old comedy of the court: the contrast between the fussy precision of the barrister’s language and the earthy facts the witnesses described. Part of the language barrier reflected a genuine need for precision in court; but another part was to do with the social gulf which separated the lives and experiences of people like Sharon and Gary from those of Julian Lloyd-Davies and my lord Stuart Gray. A chauffeur had delivered the judge to court; Lloyd-Davies, Sarah recalled wryly, had driven a black Jaguar with the numberplate LAW 2. She had been tempted to scratch it with her engagement ring as she walked past. That was the least that would have happened to a car like that in Seacroft; it would have lost its wheels and been standing on bricks by morning, if it was there at all.
‘And when did this relationship come to an end?’ Julian Lloyd-Davies continued.
‘Last April. He didn’t come home for three nights and I found out he’d been sleeping with another woman. So I slung his stuff out on the street. Cheating bugger.’
‘I see. And what happened when Gary came home and found it there?’
‘We had a fight. He broke my finger. But I changed the lock and he didn’t come back.’
‘Was this the first time he had been violent to you?’
Sharon shook her head. ‘You’re joking. He used to slap me round all the time. Specially when he was drunk. He’s a violent man, been in prison several times for it.’
Quickly, Sarah stood up, her eyes on the judge. ‘With the greatest respect, my Lord …’
‘Yes, yes, of course, Mrs Newby.’ Judge Gray knew as well as she did how vital it was for the defence to keep Gary’s criminal record from the jury. ‘Ms Gilbert, you must only answer the questions that are put to you. You mustn’t talk about anything else unless Mr Lloyd-Davies asks you. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, all right. But he asked me if he’s been violent and he has. And it’s true what I say, he has been in prison.’ For the first time, Sharon looked directly at Gary Harker in the dock. It was a look of recognition — a defiant challenge. I’ve got you now, you pig: see how you like this, it seemed to say. She held the gaze for a long second, then turned contemptuously away. If she could have spat, she would have done.
But her words were potentially devastating. Gary Harker’s criminal record ran into three pages, with several convictions for violence, some against women, for which he’d been sent to prison. According to the rules of evidence these facts, which might prejudice the jury against him, could not be mentioned in court. Now they had been. Sarah remained on her feet. It was within her power, she thought, to stop the trial now. But the judge’s long, bloodhound face concealed a quick mind. Instead of addressing Sarah he turned to the witness.
‘Ms Gilbert, answer this question yes or no, will you please. Has Gary Harker ever been sent to prison for any act of violence against you? Yes or no, remember — nothing else.’
‘Well, no, but he has …’
‘No, that’s your answer then,’ Judge Gray interrupted her smoothly. ‘Now one more question, yes or no. Has he ever been convicted of any act of violence against you?’
‘Well no, not against me, but …’
‘Thank you, Ms Gilbert, that’s all. You see, Gary Harker is not on trial for anything else he may have done in his life, he is simply on trial because he is accused of raping you. So you must only tell the jury about things that he has done to you personally, or to your children. That’s all this jury can consider, nothing else. Now Mr Lloyd-Davies asked if he’d been violent towards you and you answered that he used to slap you around when he was drunk. But it’s also true to say that he has never been convicted of any offence of violence against you. Isn’t that right?’
‘Yes,’ admitted Sharon sullenly. ‘Not yet, anyway.’
‘Very well, then.’ The judge looked at Sarah, who was still standing, and raised one lugubrious hairy eyebrow. ‘Does that satisfy you, Mrs Newby?’
‘I …’ Sarah hesitated, then capitulated. ‘For the moment, my Lord. I am most grateful.’ She sat down submissively, but she was boiling inside. Sharon had effectively told the jury that her client had convictions for violence. Should she have protested more, or asked for the trial to begin again with a fresh jury? Her hands shook as she wondered. The hesitation, and perhaps the capitulation too, were signs of her inexperience. She could still do it, she supposed; but even at this early stage it would cost time and money, which Judge Gray clearly wanted to avoid.
She had already lost one battle with the judge before the trial started, when she had tried to get the case dismissed because of the exceptional pre-trial publicity. A national tabloid had described Gary Harker as ‘the man arrested by police hunting York’s serial rapist’, and Sarah had argued that this article made it impossible for any jury in the York area to give Gary a fair trial. The judge had listened courteously but ruled against her, specifying only that jurors who admitted reading the offending newspaper article could be excluded.
Now he had allowed the jurors to hear of her client’s criminal past. What should she do? Dare she — a very junior barrister — challenge a high court judge twice in one morning? She might turn him against her for the rest of the trial. Would that help her or destroy her case?
She turned it over furiously in her mind. If the judge had ruled unfairly there would be grounds for appeal. On the other hand, she might gain a possible benefit. If the judge allowed the prosecution to attack Gary’s character by mentioning his criminal past in court, then perhaps she could attack Sharon’s character too; and she was no angel either. Sarah sat very still, thinking hard. What would a more experienced barrister do? Was that a hint of smugness on the judge’s face? Two up to him for the moment — pompous sod.
Lloyd-Davies resumed. ‘So on 23rd April last year Gary Harker left your home because of this quarrel, and so far as you were concerned he didn’t live there any more. Is that correct?’
‘Yes.’ Sharon tossed her hair defiantly. ‘I told him I never wanted to see him again.’
‘And did you see him again?’
‘No. Well, not for months. I met him at a party at the Royal Station Hotel in October. I wasn’t expecting him, he was just there.’
‘I see. What day was this exactly?’
‘Saturday the 14th. The same day I was attacked in my house.’
‘I see. Would you tell us in your own words, please, exactly what happened that night.’
So here we go, Sarah thought. She sat quite still, quite focussed — a slim dark figure with her elbows on the leather covered table and her fingers folded delicately under her chin, staring intently at the witness. She has noticed me now, Sarah thought coolly; twice she’s met my eyes, looked away, and back again. She knows I’m here; listening; waiting.
‘Well, it was a big party, and there was a lot of people in the hotel, drinking and singing and carrying on. I was having a good time, and then suddenly there was Gary in front of me.’
‘What happened then?’
‘Well, at first it was OK; I even had a dance with him. But then he got nasty. He said I’d kept his watch when he left, and he wanted it back. When I said I hadn’t got it, he called me a thieving slag and said he’d get it back himself. So I told him to piss off and he did.’
‘All right. Did you see him again that night?’
‘No. Not until he came to my house and raped me.’
There was a stir of interest in the public gallery above Sarah’s head. This was what they came for, she thought. Ghouls. She glanced at the jury — eight women, four men; Lloyd-Davies had been lucky there — and saw a look of pity on the face of a motherly woman in the front row.
‘All right, Ms Gilbert. Take your time, and in your own words tell the court exactly what happened when you got home that night.’
At first Sharon did not speak. She glanced down and fiddled with a bracelet as though uncertain, now the moment had come, what to say. But then she lifted her head, stared straight at Lloyd-Davies, and began the story she had, no doubt, rehearsed many times before.
‘Right. Well, I got a taxi home at eleven — I couldn’t be any later, because I had a sitter in for the kids, my friend Mary. When I got home they were tucked up on the sofa in front of the telly. My youngest, Katie, had an ear infection so Mary’d brought both of ‘em downstairs. After Mary left I made the kids a hot drink and settled them down in bed. It took a while because Katie was still grizzling so I had to give her a cuddle and play one of her tapes.’
‘What tape was that?’ Lloyd-Davies prompted.
‘Postman Pat, I think. I’ve bought all those stories for her — she loves ‘em.’
Oh wonderful, Sarah thought. She raised an eyebrow in cynical admiration of the point of Lloyd-Davies’ question. Hot drinks, Postman Pat — the perfect loving home.
‘So how long was it before you managed to get Katie off to sleep?’
‘About half an hour, probably — perhaps a bit more. I don’t know exactly — I was dropping off myself in the chair by the bed. Then I heard this noise downstairs.’
‘What sort of noise?’
‘A crash — like a window breaking. I wasn’t sure if I’d imagined it at first, so I just sat quiet, listening to see if there was anything else. Then after a couple of minutes I heard someone moving around downstairs, so I thought Oh my God and went out onto the landing and then I saw him, coming up the stairs …’
Sharon paused, and Sarah watched intently. This was the crucial part of the story — was there any possibility that she was making it up, or was it all true? Sarah’s gloom deepened. It seemed to her that a genuine memory was flooding back to Sharon as she spoke, as if the events she was describing were clearer in her mind than the courtroom she stood in.
‘Who did you see?’ Lloyd-Davies asked softly.
‘A man in a hood coming up the stairs. One of them balaclava hoods that terrorists wear.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘Nothing. Screamed, I think. But then he grabbed me, put his hand over my mouth and shoved me back into Katie’s room. I tried to stop him but he was too strong. And he had a knife.’
‘Did you see this knife?’
‘No. I just felt it. He stuck it into my throat, here.’ She touched the left side of her neck. ‘Just a little, so I’d know it was there. I felt it go into my skin.’
‘Did he say anything?’
‘Not then, no. He just laughed, and started pulling at my clothes. I was terrified. He pulled my skirt and knickers down and then he …’ Sharon took a deep breath and plunged on, determined to get it over with. ‘… he turned me round and pushed me face down over the side of the armchair and then he … he shoved my legs apart and raped me from behind.’
She stopped and looked at Lloyd-Davies, knowing probably what was to come, but unable to phrase it for herself. The precise, necessary legal language.
‘When you say he raped you, you felt his erect penis enter your vagina?’
‘Yes. Oh yes, he got it in all right. It hurt, too, it hurt a lot. The doctor saw that after.’
‘Yes. And while all this was happening, where was your four-year-old daughter Katie?’
‘In her bed, of course, by the armchair. That was the worst part of it. She thought he was killing me, poor kid. I can see her now, in that bed with her mouth wide open screaming her head off. It was like all her nightmares come true — she still dreams about it now, almost every night she wakes up and wets the bed, screaming. Then little Wayne came in and started hitting him to get him off me.’
Lloyd-Davies held up a hand for her to pause. Then he repeated her point slowly and clearly, to make quite sure the jury had taken it in.
‘You’re saying that your seven-year-old son, Wayne, came into the room and started hitting the rapist in order to rescue his mother. Is that right?’
‘That’s right.’ For the first time Sharon had tears in her eyes. ‘I told him to get out and run but he’s a little hero, that son of mine. Sticks up for his mother no matter what.’
‘So how did the man respond to this attack by a seven-year-old boy?’
‘Well, he shoved him off, didn’t he? But Wayne wouldn’t stop, so he said “Get off me, Wayne, you little bugger,” something like that. That was when I guessed who he was.’
Lloyd-Davies held up his hand again, to emphasise the point. ‘He said “Get off me, Wayne,” did he? He used your son’s name?’
‘Yes, he did, definitely. I remember that.’
‘And was it that, the use of Wayne’s name, that made you realise who this man was?’
‘Well, yes — that and his voice. I recognised that too. It was him — Gary bloody Harker.’ Again she glared at Gary in the dock, and Sarah wished she could see his reaction.
‘So what happened then?’
‘Well, Gary pulled out of me and stuck the knife in my throat. He said he’d kill me if Wayne didn’t piss off. Then he grabbed my hair and dragged me into another room. My own bedroom.’
‘What was your response to all this?’
‘Well … I was screaming, at both of them. I was screaming at Gary to let Wayne alone and at Wayne to stay away. I thought he’d kill him. I didn’t care about myself, I just didn’t want my kids hurt.’
‘And were you asking him to leave you alone as well?’
Sharon stared at him pityingly. ‘What do you think? Of course I was.’
‘And how did he respond?’
‘Like the animal he is. He smacked me round the face and told me to shut up and do what he said or he’d kill me and the kids too.’
‘And you recognised his voice when he said that, too, did you?’
‘Oh yeah, it was him all right. Filthy pig.’
‘All right. So when he got you into your bedroom, what happened then?’
‘Well, he hit me in the face and I fell down and lay there on the floor. Then he grabbed me by the hair and I thought, it’s all going to start again. But it didn’t, not the rape anyway. Instead he grabbed the cord of my dressing gown and tied my hands behind my back with it, and then tied the long end round my throat so it started to choke me if I didn’t hold my hands high, up my back. Then he put the knife to my throat again and … I thought I was going to die.’
‘Did he say anything?’ Lloyd-Davies asked softly.
‘No, not this time.’ Sharon shook her head, lost in the horror of her memory. ‘But there was a noise. I didn’t know what it was at first, then I realized — it was him laughing. I could see it in his eyes too. He just stared at me through that black hood, and … laughed. I could hardly breathe and he had his knife to my throat and I thought, he’s going to kill me now and then he’ll murder the kids as well.’
Her eyes flooded with tears and Sarah thought, it’s too much even for her. Too much for any woman to have to say in open court in front of bewigged lawyers and twelve members of a jury and the furiously scribbling newspaper reporters and the serried ranks of German language students in the public galleries above, simultaneously appalled and delighted by the example of British justice they had stumbled upon. To say nothing of the accused, Gary Harker, watching her coldly from the dock. And me, whose job it is to cast doubt on all this.
Sarah felt ill as she contemplated the magnitude of her task. But it was Sharon’s comfort the judge was concerned with.
‘Would you like a break, Ms Gilbert?’ he asked courteously, when the pause had gone on for nearly a minute. But Sharon shook her head determinedly. She wasn’t crying; she had just needed a pause to regain her courage. And she had nearly reached the end of her story.
‘What happened next?’ Lloyd-Davies asked.
‘He shoved me down on the bed, went to my chest of drawers and pulled out the bottom drawer. And that proved who he was, too.’
‘Could you explain that please?’
‘Yes, well he went straight to the bottom drawer, where I keep my jewellery in case anyone breaks in. There are six drawers but he went to the bottom one straight away. And the first thing he pulled out was his watch, the one he’d asked about in the hotel. After that he took some rings as well. Then he left, I suppose. Thank God he didn’t hurt the kids.’
‘What happened after he left?’
‘Little Wayne came in and untied me, bless him. I was nearly choking, I could hardly breathe. Soon as I recovered I called my friend Mary and the police.’
Sharon looked at Lloyd-Davies with relief. She had done it; the first part of her torment was over.
Almost over.
‘Just a couple more questions, Ms Gilbert, then I’ve finished. You say that you recognised Gary by his voice and the fact that he knew your son’s name, and then you felt even more certain when he went straight to the jewel box in your bottom drawer. Is that because Gary knew you kept it there?’
‘Yes. He saw it when he lived with me. And he said in the hotel, I bet I know where that watch is.’
‘I see. And did anything else about your assailant make you sure it was Gary?’
‘Yes, everything. He was the same size, same build. The kids recognised him. Even his prick was the same, if you really want to know.’
Sarah Newby raised her eyebrows slightly. Not the wisest point to make to a respectable jury, Sharon, she thought. Did Lloyd-Davies expect her to say that? Surely not.
But Sharon hadn’t finished. ‘Anyway, he’s done it to other women, hasn’t he? I saw that in the papers.’
Swiftly Sarah was on her feet, but once again Judge Gray forestalled her. ‘Ms Gilbert, you are here to give evidence about what happened to you, and nothing else, do you understand me?’ He looked directly at the jury. ‘Members of the jury, I must ask you specifically to disregard that last remark. I can tell you categorically that Gary Harker has never been convicted of rape in his life before, and no evidence will be presented in this court about any other charge than the one before you; and if it is you are duty bound to disregard it.’
‘I am grateful, my lord.’ Slowly, Sarah sat down. But she had been outmanoeuvred for the second time today, and she wondered bitterly if Sharon’s outburst had been spontaneous, or whether Lloyd-Davies had put her up to it. Was this how you got a silk gown and black Jaguar with a personalised number plate? Am I just going to sit back and take this? No.
Julian Lloyd-Davies glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘Would My Lord like Ms Gilbert to remain for questions from my learned colleague?’
The judge smiled protectively at Sharon, as Lloyd-Davies had expected he would. ‘No, no, I think in view of the time and the distressing nature of the evidence, we might adjourn for today. But you must be here tomorrow to answer questions from Mrs Newby, Ms Gilbert. Do you understand?’
He rose to his feet, the usher bawled ‘all stand!’ and court was over for the day. Julian Lloyd-Davies tied his notes in red tape with a casual, practised hand, and smiled urbanely at Sarah. ‘And the best of British luck, I have to say.’
Sarah met his gaze coolly. ‘I’m going to need it, if this kind of thing goes on,’ she said. ‘I’m requesting a meeting in chambers straight away. I want this stopped right now.’