Page 13 of Dissection of a Murder
Despite all this, behind the tattoos and the muscles, Jack seems like a little boy. One who was never given a break in life. He looks as if he’s carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.
Some clients are awful. The ones who couldn’t care less about the hours, blood, sweat, and literal tears you put into their case. The sleep you lose over them. Getting up at 4 a.m. to write their closing speech so it’s ready by 10:30 a.m. sharp. You’ll secure an acquittal and, in turn, their liberty, and they’ll stroll out of court without so much as a thank-you.
Jack isn’t like that.
“We really have to stop meeting like this, Miss Reynolds. People are gonna start thinking I’m some kind of common criminal,” he says, with the faintest hint of a smile. His black, cheekbone-length hair is messy and unstyled around his face, which hasn’t been shaved for days. “Somewhere a bit classier next time? Nando’s?”
I can’t resist smiling.
“Clearly you missed me too much,” I joke back, but then followwhat I said with a steely look. This is serious. I open the brief in front of me.
“How are you, Jack?”
The bravado melts away. He swallows hard and looks down at the table before answering. I struggle to drag my eyes away from his handcuffed hands. I can’t imagine how awful it must be, being restrained like that.
“All right, considering. I wouldn’t say I’m doing well, but I suppose I’m coping.”
“Good. I’m here to do the best I can, Jack. I need you to know that,” I reply, faffing around with my papers so we don’t descend into any kind of sentimentality. I acquainted myself with his antecedent history before the conference and it was a depressing read: burglary, theft, drugs, violence. But nothing in the last five years, not since I last represented him. He’s really tried to turn things around, by the looks of things.
“I know you’ve been here before, but I’m going to set out how this works, so we’re all clear.” I smile at him. “You won’t enter a plea today; we’re just setting a timetable. You’ve instructed me to represent you, and I will assess all of the prosecution’s evidence. Based on that and what you say about the offense you’re charged with, I will advise you on whether to plead guilty or not guilty.”
“I’m not guilty,” he interrupts calmly.
My eyes flit toward Davina, his solicitor, for a second; she doesn’t take her eyes off Jack.
“It’s not a decision to make now,” I reiterate. “We’ll discuss it in due course.”
“My plea won’t change. I’m going not guilty.”
Ninety-nine percent of clients say they intend to plead not guilty at the first hearing, but it’s my duty to set out what the situation is from a defense point of view at the outset.
“Jack, when you called the police at 11:07 p.m., you said, ‘Judge Smythe from Durham Crown Court is dying in my flat.’ When the operator asked what happened, you replied, ‘I’ve been here all night. He’s seriously hurt.’ You then gave a no-comment interview.”
He nods, not taking his eyes off mine.
“I don’t suppose you know where your phone is, do you? Mobile phones can offer a real insight into your life and be helpful in these cases. It’s very unusual that it wasn’t at your apartment.”
“I don’t know where it is, and it’s not gonna turn up anytime soon,” he says, shaking his head.
I stare at him, waiting for him to continue.
“It was stolen, a few hours before the incident.”
I notice his carefully worded language.The incident.
“Where and when did you last have it?”
“In the club. I was working, moving around a lot. It’s difficult to say when it went missing. I only realized when I needed to call 999.”
“How are you so sure it was stolen and not lost?”
“There are things on there that could be dangerous if they got into the wrong hands. It’s either in my pocket or in my flat. It was stolen.”
Davina remains silent, despite this revelation—she knows that to probe too deeply now would be dangerous; he’ll tell us when he’s ready—but I have no doubt he’s just said what he did deliberately.
“Can you share with us what was on your phone?”
“Nope,” he replies in a clipped tone.
