When Sarah entered court everyone else apart from the judge was already in their places. Hurriedly, she poured herself a glass of water, and scanned the questions on her pad.
‘All stand!’ the clerk called, and everyone rose. Judge Gray entered, bowed, and sat down. Everyone except Sarah resumed their seats. Despite her hurried entry she felt quite calm, clear in her mind about what she had to do.
‘Now, Ms Gilbert, you say you met Mr Harker at a party at the Royal Station Hotel on Saturday 14th October. What time did you arrive?’
‘About eight, eight thirty, I suppose.’
‘And you left just before midnight, you said?’
‘Yes. I had to get home because of the kids.’
‘Yes. Your little girl was ill, I think you said. So you stayed at this party for what? Three hours? Four?’ Sarah glanced at the jury, hoping they would take the point about Sharon’s standard of child care.
‘About that, yeah.’
‘I see. And while you were there, what did you drink?’
‘Vodka and lime. That’s what I usually have.’
‘That’s the only thing you drink, is it?’
‘Usually, yes. Sometimes a glass of wine or a gin.’
‘All right. So you went to this party to enjoy yourself, and you were there for three or four hours. Think back, Ms Gilbert. So how many vodka and limes did you have in the course of the evening? One? Three? Five? Ten?’
Up to this point Sarah had met Sharon’s eyes as she questioned her, but now she looked away, at a point on the wall about a yard to Sharon’s right and above her head. It was a technique she had learned from other barristers — at crucial points look away, break eye contact. It keeps your mind clear to focus on the most precise, awkward questions while at the same time leaving the witness floundering, unable to enlist your sympathy with body language. It’s a sort of calculated insult, too — it shows the jury you’re in charge, that you’re listening to the answers but don’t necessarily trust the person who is giving them.
‘About … four, five perhaps.’
‘All right. Four or five vodkas with lime. What about gin? You drink that sometimes.’
‘Yeah, Gary bought me one. Trying to make up to me, I guess.’
‘All right. So you had four or five vodkas, and a gin. A double gin, was it?’
‘Yes.’
‘All right. So it was a good party and you had quite a lot to drink.’ Sarah looked pointedly at the jury. ‘Nothing wrong with that, but it all adds up to … what? Maybe eight units of alcohol altogether. And for the sake of comparison, an average woman exceeds the drink drive limit after three or four units, so you were well over that. Were you drunk, Ms Gilbert?’
‘Drunk? No. A bit merry, perhaps.’ Sharon was looking flushed now, annoyed. ‘I’m never drunk. I can’t be, can I, with the kids?’
‘Never drunk. So you feel you were in a perfectly fit state to look after your children, one of whom was ill. Is that right?’
‘Yes, of course I was! All I had to do was give them a bit of a cuddle and put ‘em to bed! Anyway, so what? I’m not here because of my kids, I’m here because that man raped me!’
‘Well, that’s exactly the point I’m coming to, Ms Gilbert. You see, we’ve already established that it would be very difficult for you to positively identify a man who broke into your house with a hood over his face, when you were naturally very frightened — terrified — and the man only spoke a few words through his hood. Now when I asked you about that this morning, I imagine the jury assumed you were sober; but you weren’t, were you? You were not only terrified out of your wits — as you had every right to be — you were drunk!’
‘No I bloody well wasn’t! I just had a few drinks at a party. What’s wrong with that?’
Sarah faced the jury, hoping to appeal to their common sense. She studied them carefully — a frowning middle-class woman in her fifties, a young man in a suit, a vacant young woman in a fluffy pink cardigan, a heavy-set man in a leather jacket, resting his chin in his hand.
‘You had consumed eight units of alcohol, Ms Gilbert. Do you know why people are prohibited from driving with that amount in their blood? It’s because their ability to react correctly, and perceive accurately what is going on around them, is seriously impaired. But you had drunk twice the permitted driving level, Ms Gilbert! Twice as much! It’s a simple medical fact — everything was a blur to you that night, wasn’t it?’
‘No!’
‘Yes, Ms Gilbert.’ To her delight Sarah saw the man in the leather jacket and the middle-aged woman nod in agreement. ‘Let me put it simply. It’s hard enough for anyone to identify a man with a hood over his face when they’re sober, but you weren’t sober, you were drunk. So you were in no state whatsoever to identify a man whose face you never even saw!’
‘Yes I bloody well was! It was him — Gary Harker! He broke in and raped me, damn you — how would you like it!’
I wouldn’t like it at all, Sarah thought. I’d be scared witless and it might ruin my life for ever. She noticed accusing frowns from two jury women who were probably thinking the same. Be careful, she thought. This is a battle for the jury’s sympathy as well as to establish the facts. She kept her voice calm and reasonable.
‘Please understand me, Ms Gilbert. I’m not suggesting for a second that you weren’t raped. What I am suggesting is that you were far too drunk to be sure that the man who raped you was Gary Harker. It could have been somebody else, you see, not Gary at all!’
‘No. It was Gary,’ Sharon insisted stubbornly.
‘All right then.’ Sarah sighed, and began a new tack. ‘Let’s go back to the party at the hotel where you met Gary earlier. What sort of things did you talk about?’
‘This and that. Where he was living, jobs he’d had. Whether he’d been in jail again.’ Sharon brought this last remark out with vindictive spite, no doubt remembering the effect her reference to Gary’s record had had yesterday.
It was a good hit, but Sarah moved quickly on. ‘He asked about his watch, didn’t he?’
‘Yeah. He said he knew where I kept it, it was in my bottom drawer with all my rings and things, and if I didn’t give it back he was going to get it himself.’
‘All right, Ms Gilbert. Now I want you to think carefully.’ Sarah thought carefully herself. The next point had to be built up step by step if it was to work. For the next few questions Sarah carefully established that the hotel had been crowded, and yes, Sharon and Gary had argued quite loudly enough about the watch for other people to overhear them talking about the watch and where it was kept. And after all, she had had this watch for six months, a man’s watch, not one she would wear herself. Had she shown it to a few friends, perhaps, men who might be interested in buying it? Sharon shrugged, not seeing the relevance.
‘I may have shown it to a few people, perhaps. So what?’
Sarah smiled inwardly. ‘The point I am putting to you, Ms Gilbert, is that plenty of people other than Gary must have known that you kept that watch in your bottom drawer. So even if the rapist did go straight to your bottom drawer, that doesn’t prove it was Gary, does it?’
‘Yes it bloody well does!’ Sharon saw the point now, and was angry. ‘He knew it was there and he took it, and anyway I recognised him by his voice, and the fact that he knew Wayne’s name, and …’
‘…and his penis, Ms Gilbert. Yes, we heard about that this morning. But we have also just established that you were terrified out of your wits and drunk at the time. Are you quite sure that you’re telling the truth about this watch? It was there in your bottom drawer, wasn’t it? And the rapist definitely took it?’
‘Yes. I told you. How many times?’
‘All right. So how do you account for the fact that when the police arrested Gary next morning, they didn’t find the watch. He hadn’t got it. Surely if he was so fond of this watch he would have put it on his wrist, wouldn’t he? That would be the natural thing to do.’
‘He must have hidden it. Like the rings and the hood that might incriminate him.’
‘Yes, the balaclava hood.’ Sarah shook her head slowly. ‘The police didn’t find that in Gary’s flat either, did they? Well, you may be right, Ms Gilbert, he may have planned things carefully and hidden the watch and the hood and the rings before going home. But isn’t it equally possible — much more likely, in fact — that the reason the police didn’t find these things in Gary’s flat is because he didn’t rape you? You made a mistake, and identified Gary when it was someone else!’
‘No! It was him. I told you!’
‘Was it?’ Sarah paused, and as she did so she was suddenly aware of herself from outside, as though she were looking down from the gallery on this woman in a wig and gown, the focus of attention of everyone in the courtroom. It was a weird sensation, lasting only a second, but she delighted in it. This was exactly where she had wanted to get to in her cross-examination and she had done so without mishap. She felt like an actress on centre stage who is about to launch into her main soliloquy. Her voice was clear, resonant, persuasive.
‘You see, Ms Gilbert, you had two big shocks that night, didn’t you? The second one was the rape, which was a terrifying, awful thing; but the first one came earlier, when you met Gary Harker in the hotel. Gary, the man who’d betrayed you. It wasn’t a particularly nice surprise meeting him again, was it? You felt bitter towards him because of the way you’d broken up. Then you had an argument about this watch. You were angry with him, weren’t you?’
‘Angry? I was sick of him. Still am!’
‘Yes.’ The more shrill and angry Sharon’s voice became, the more Sarah tried to keep her own calm, reasonable, understanding. ‘So there you are, going out for a nice evening, when Gary turns up. You have a quarrel and it spoils your evening. You’re angry — sick of him, as you say. And you’ve had a lot to drink, too, we’ve established that. So on the way home, these feelings of anger towards Gary are still there in your mind; you can’t get rid of them. He’s nothing but trouble, you think — the last thing you want is to see him again. He spoils everything. It’s perfectly natural to think that, of course — nothing wrong with it. But then, in the middle of this, a masked man, a stranger, breaks into your house and rapes you. You’re confused, drunk, and terrified. So when he’s gone and the police start asking you questions, you put the two things together in your mind and think ‘that man must have been Gary.’
‘It was Gary! I recognised him!’
‘What I’m putting to you, Ms Gilbert, is that in your drunken, terrified state you imagined it was him, when in fact you didn’t recognise him at all, did you?’
‘I did! I told you! It was Gary — I know it was!’
‘But you have no real proof, Ms Gilbert, do you? You’re just imagining these things about recognising his voice and his penis because you’re angry with Gary and you want to get your own back on him, but the truth is that you don’t really know who raped you, do you? That’s the terrible truth. You were raped by a man who you simply didn’t recognise at all!’
‘No … no … I don’t know. I’ve told you it was Gary. It had to be.’
‘You don’t know. Exactly; you say it yourself. It’s much more terrifying to be raped by a complete stranger but that’s the real truth of the matter, isn’t it? You don’t know. You really don’t know who the man was, do you?’
Sarah had expected another instant denial but to her surprise there was a pause. Sharon looked down, fiddling distractedly with a ring. Every second the pause went on Sarah felt a rising thrill, a rush of adrenalin along her bloodstream as she thought I’ve done it! I’ve got her! In reality the pause only lasted perhaps fifteen seconds but it seemed to go on forever. Everyone in court watched Sharon intently, fascinated, waiting.
When Sharon finally raised her head there were tears in her eyes but she made no attempt to wipe them away. She looked directly past Sarah at the man in the dock, and when she spoke her voice was hoarse, quieter than before, almost a whisper.
‘It was Gary Harker who raped me.’
And so she had not broken. Sarah stood for a moment, irresolute, wondering what to do next. Part of her wanted to go on, to worry the woman like a bitch who has wounded her prey but not killed it, but she doubted now if this woman would ever surrender. Anyway she had no new questions and if she simply repeated the old ones the judge would stop her for bullying the witness. She remembered a point from her training — if you can’t break your witness, stop when the doubt is uppermost in the jury’s mind. She had reached that moment now.
‘That’s all I have to ask.’ She folded her gown about her and sat down.
‘Thank you, Ms Gilbert,’ the judge said courteously. ‘You may stand down now.’
As the usher guided Sharon out Sarah watched the jury, trying to gauge their reaction. The middle-aged lady looked disapproving, the girl in the pink fluffy pullover vacant, the man in the leather jacket sympathetic, as though he would like to get up and wrap Sharon in his arms. No joy there, then. But a grey haired man in tweeds, whom Sarah had not noticed before, shook his head sadly as Sharon went out, and a younger man was scribbling intently on his note pad.
That must have put some doubt in their minds, Sarah thought, her hands trembling with suppressed excitement. I did the best I could; I couldn’t have done better.
She looked over her shoulder at Lucy, who smiled encouragement. Then she looked up, to see what Simon had made of her performance. At least he must see she wasn’t a complete dud at this job she had spent so long training for. Perhaps they could talk about it afterwards.
But to her surprise and intense disappointment, Simon was no longer there.