Unconvicted Read online

  Unconvicted

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraphs

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Epilogue

  Copyright

  Unconvicted

  Olly Jarvis

  For my parents – Gay, Richard, Ros and Martin

  ‘Everyone charged with a criminal offence shall be presumed innocent until proved guilty according to law.’

  — Article 6 (2) of The European Convention on Human Rights

  ‘I have no color prejudices nor caste prejudices nor creed prejudices. All I care to know is that a man is a human being, and that is enough for me; he can't be any worse.’

  — Mark Twain

  Prologue

  Pani Mila was waiting for Jack in the doorway of the Parish Hall. An elderly Polish woman who helped out at the church and cooked and cleaned for some of the parishioners, including Jack’s father, she reminded him of a Russian Matryoshka doll.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ she said. ‘It mean very much to the children, meeting people like you.’

  ‘It’s an honour,’ Jack replied, letting his wig bag roll off his shoulder.

  ‘Sorry, but you’ll have to speak Polish.’

  ‘No problem,’ Jack replied.

  The chatter ceased as she showed him through into the hall, full of children of all ages sitting on old plastic chairs.

  It had been over a decade since he’d last sat in those seats.

  ‘Everyone, this is Jack Kowalski,’ Mila began in Polish. ‘He’s a defence barrister working in Manchester.’

  A few sniggers.

  ‘Who knows what that means?’ she asked.

  ‘He gets criminals off,’ said a boy at the back.

  The older children broke into laughter.

  ‘That’s certainly one way of looking at it,’ Jack cut in, using his best Polish grammar.

  Encouraged by Jack’s reaction, the teenager observed: ‘You’re too young to be a barrister.’

  There were a few smirks.

  ‘I’m twenty-six.’ This wasn’t going to be as easy as he’d thought. ‘Some of my clients say the same thing.’

  More laughter.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Pani, trying to regain her rhythm. ‘Jack grew up in Moss side, went to this church, went to Polish school here Saturdays, just like you. Actually,’ she said with a smile, ‘like you, he no speak English when he start school.’ She turned to the guest speaker for confirmation.

  ‘That’s right,’ Jack replied.

  The audience was interested now.

  ‘Did you find that hard?’ asked a teenage girl.

  ‘Yes. It was difficult to fit in. I don’t think I ever got over it.’

  He had struck a chord.

  ‘Is that why you became a barrister, had something to prove?’

  ‘Good question.’ Jack laughed. ‘You should be the barrister.’

  A grin spread across her face.

  ‘Do you have to wear funny clothes?’ asked a younger girl at the front.

  ‘Yes, I do.’ Glad of the respite, he pulled the tin from his bag and held up his wig. ‘I have to wear this,’ he said, tossing it over to the child. ‘Try it on.’

  Enjoying the attention, she put it on, making everyone chuckle.

  A boy put his hand up. ‘What do you do if they’ve done some horrible crime, like rape or murder, and you know they’re guilty?’

  Pani Mila winced, but didn’t intervene.

  Jack gave a wry smile. He’d been asked that question a thousand times. ‘You only know if they tell you, and then you can’t say they’re innocent.’

  ‘But what if you just know,’ the boy persisted, ‘in your heart?’

  Jack thought for a moment. ‘You carry on.’

  ‘That must be very difficult,’ said Pani Mila.

  ‘I suppose so,’ Jack replied. ‘But it hasn’t really happened to me yet.’

  Chapter 1

  ‘Come on you two, it’s half past seven.’

  Natasha Smart’s daughters scampered across the landing. They giggled as she patted their bottoms.

  The girls climbed under their duvets.

  ‘Mummy,’ said Geraldine, the eldest, as she flopped her head deep into the pillow. ‘I miss Daddy. When can we see him?’

  ‘I’m not sure, sweetie. Daddy’s poorly. When he’s better you can see him.’

  ‘Does he still love us, Mummy?’

  ‘Of course he does, sweetie. Why do you ask that?’

  Geraldine’s brow furrowed. ‘Because I saw him. He didn’t look poorly.’

  ‘Where?’ As soon as she said it, Natasha wished she hadn’t sounded so alarmed.

  Geraldine studied her mother’s face with the intuition of youth.

  ‘At school. Playtime.’ Geraldine’s words became a whisper, sensing the importance of her secret. ‘He talked to me through the fence.’

  ‘What did he say?’ her mother whispered back.

  She thought for a moment. ‘I can’t remember. I think it was about God.’

  Natasha was still taking this in when she heard something being knocked over outside. The wheelie bin. She got up and looked out of the window, onto the lane below. Too dark to make anything out. She cursed the lack of streetlights. Since she’d separated from Tim, the house had lost it
s appeal. Once their dream home, the Cheshire farmhouse with its own land had become a frightening and isolated prison.

  She finished tucking the girls in, kissed their foreheads and made her way downstairs.

  Another clattering sound, this time from the back of the house.

  Natasha’s heart was pounding. She tiptoed through the kitchen to the back door and peered through the glass into the darkness. Nothing.

  She unlocked the door, opened it slowly, then stood on the step, illuminated by the kitchen light. ‘Tim, is that you?’

  The stillness of the countryside filled her with anxiety. ‘If you’re trying to scare me, it isn’t working. Go home or I’ll call the police.’

  After a few seconds she half-turned, about to go back inside. Then something on the patio caught her eye.

  White paint – letters – a word – ‘WHORE.’

  The shock made her gulp. She slammed the kitchen door, locked it, then ran to the front door to check the bolt.

  Senses heightened, the slightest sound made her jump.

  She leaned against the wall and slid to the floor, knees up against her chest.

  Burying her head in her hands, Natasha began to sob.

  Chapter 2

  Jack tutted when he saw that the light was still on in Mariusz’s workshop. He locked the door behind him and flipped the open sign to closed. ‘Tata, you promised not to work this late any more?’

  ‘I finishing now,’ Jack’s father replied, getting up from the sewing machine. ‘Give me hand.’

  Jack walked past the suit rails and steadied Mariusz as he tried to straighten up.

  Mariusz waved a finger at the finished jacket. Jack hung it up, switched off the light, helped his father up the back stairs to his flat, and lowered him into the armchair. ‘You’ve got to slow down, Tata, you know what the doctor said.’

  Mariusz gave a disapproving grunt. ‘Zuppe in fridge, Pani Mila make.’

  Jack put the soup on the hob. ‘Smells good,’ he called to Mariusz. ‘When are you going to take Mila dancing at the Polish Club?’

  ‘Stop talking rubbish.’

  Jack laughed.

  ‘She very grateful you agree to give talk.’

  ‘I enjoyed it. They asked some tough questions, though.’

  Jack took the soup through to the lounge. His father made to get up, but Jack gestured for him to sit and pulled a small, mahogany-effect coffee table over to his chair.

  Mariusz sipped at the spoon cautiously and watched his son. ‘You look well, Janusz.’

  Jack blew on his soup. ‘I am. I feel like everything’s falling into place, like I’m finally getting the hang of it. I may actually be able to do this job.’

  Mariusz smiled. ‘I knew you could.’ A pause. ‘And what about Lara?’

  ‘I’m on a case with her at the moment, speeches tomorrow,’ he replied, knowing what his father really meant.

  ‘When you going to ask her on date?’

  ‘We work together; she’s my instructing solicitor. I don’t want to spoil things.’

  Mariusz scoffed. ‘You have courage to fight case in court, but you too shy to ask her?’

  ‘Leave it out, Tata, it’s not that easy.’ There was no hiding from his father. ‘I will when the time’s right.’

  Chapter 3

  Oblivious to the biting Mancunian wind, Jack walked down Quay Street with a spring in his step. He stopped outside chambers, touched his name on the list of members and smiled to himself. Jack Kowalski was finally a tenant at Century Buildings. He ran up the steps, two at a time, then turned left into the clerks’ room.

  ‘Ah, Mr Kowalski. How are we today?’ asked Bob as he watched chambers’ newest tenant take off his coat.

  ‘Fine, thanks. Speeches at half ten in my burglary trial.’ He reached into his pigeonhole. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘It’s a bail application in a rape, sir. On the missus. A favour for your old pupil-master – Mr Huntsman’s part heard in Liverpool. You’ll look after it, won’t you?’

  Bob’s politeness didn’t fool Jack. Nobody refused the senior clerk.

  ‘A rape?’

  ‘You’ll be all right, sir. The solicitor is Ken Dobkin. He knows you haven’t got a prayer. It’s just to keep the punter ’appy. You’re on at ten.’

  ‘But I need to be done for my trial at half ten.’

  ‘It won’t take long, sir, client won’t be there, banged up in Strangeways.’

  Jack looked at his watch. ‘That’s in twenty minutes! When am I supposed to read it?’

  ‘Walking to court, of course.’

  Jack registered his disapproval with a glare.

  ‘Well, get a move on, sir!’

  ‘Just this once, then, and only because it’s for Mr Huntsman,’ said Jack as he left the clerks’ room.

  ‘Oh, of course, sir,’ replied Bob, winking at the junior clerks. ‘Anyway, you should be thanking me. If you’d had the brief yesterday you’d have spent all night on it.’ Bob got out of his chair and followed Jack as he hurried out onto the street. ‘Carry on the way you are, sir, and you’ll be doing your own rape trial before you know it!’

  Turning the corner, Jack raised an arm in triumph.

  Walking back into the clerks’ room, Bob announced: ‘I do like that boy.’

  Chapter 4

  Jack robed in double-quick time. He rushed down to Court 8, flicking through the brief to take in the basic grounds of the application for bail. He had butterflies, but not for fear of going into Court: he’d all but conquered that in his first few months of tenancy. No, he was nervous about being unprepared, and at the possibility of getting a dressing-down from the judge.

  But it was all part of being a barrister, and Jack could handle it. He was on his way, he’d won a few trials, his diary was starting to fill up, and solicitors were actually briefing him in his own name. And most important of all, he was starting to feel comfortable, not only in a wig and gown, but in his own skin.

  His opponent was already in Court. Barry Smith worked in-house at the Crown Prosecution Service. A sensible and fair prosecutor who gave every brief the same meticulous consideration.

  ‘Here he is! Cutting it a bit fine, aren’t you, Kowalski?’ he said as Jack flung his papers onto an empty lectern on counsel’s row.

  ‘Don’t even go there,’ Jack replied. ‘I’ve read the basics, Barry. No previous, denies it completely. Anything else I should know?’

  ‘Only that we’re really worried about this one.’ His humour had vanished. ‘He’s gone totally psycho, flipped out, smashed up the house and did some pretty strange things leading up to the rape. We really don’t want him out there. This brief has got danger written all over it.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Barry! Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty?’ asked Jack. ‘I wouldn’t worry though, mate. I’ll never get bail in this.’

  ‘All rise!’

  Her Honour Judge Beddingfield entered the courtroom and took her seat on the bench.

  ‘Yes?’ she said, not wasting any time.

  The court clerk stood up. ‘The bail application of Timothy Smart, Your Honour. Mr Smith is for the Crown and Mr Kowalski defends.’

  ‘Very good. Let’s get on with it, gentlemen. I’m anxious not to keep the jury waiting in my trial. What are your objections to bail, Mr Smith?’

  ‘Quite simply, risk of further offences, Your Honour. The defendant has committed a very serious offence – rape of his estranged wife. He’s very unstable. There’s been a pattern of offending, all directed towards Mrs Smart: harassment, smashing windows, even entering the house uninvited and leaving bizarre and threatening messages on the walls. She’s terrified, Your Honour.’

  The prosecutor handed forward some photographs of the lounge, the first of which showed the words ‘sin no more’ written in three-foot-high letters along one wall.

  ‘Yes, I see,’ said the judge, looking through the other photos, clearly concerned. ‘What do you say, Mr Kowalski?’ />
  Jack got stuck in immediately: ‘There’s absolutely no corroboration for any of this, Your Honour. It all comes from Mrs Smith; only her word. There’s no bruising or injury that suggests a forced sexual act.’ Jack paused to let his points sink in. ‘Your Honour, as far as the allegations of criminal damage are concerned, it’s pure speculation that they were committed by the defendant. There is not a shred of evidence to link him to the offences. No forensics, nor eyewitness evidence. And, as I understand it, Mrs Smart did not report any of these matters to the police at the time they were allegedly committed. Only later, when she made the allegation of rape.’

  Her Honour raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that right, Mr Smith?’

  ‘Yes it is, Your Honour. Mrs Smart made her reasons quite clear in her witness statement. She didn’t want to aggravate matters by involving the police. She was desperately trying to find a way to appease the defendant and resolve matters amicably, for the sake of the children. He reacted very badly when she told him she wanted a divorce.’

  The judge nodded. ‘Yes, I see.’

  Smith continued: ‘She’d already managed to persuade the defendant to move out some months earlier. Even then, she noticed how his behaviour was becoming more erratic. As far as any lack of injury is concerned, it’s well known that it takes the case no further. There is frequently no bruising or other injury where intercourse is forced.’

  ‘Semen?’ said the judge.

  ‘None, Your Honour. The defendant suffered from sexual dysfunction during the marriage – unable to ejaculate. There was a partial DNA profile on a vaginal swab, which matched the defendant.’ Smith sat down. He’d done enough.

  ‘Mr Kowalski?’

  ‘I’ve seen the expert’s preliminary report – it’s a significantly incomplete profile. My learned friend knows full well that he would never get that in evidence before a jury. Your Honour, Mr Smith hasn’t dealt with a fundamental flaw in the Crown’s case – the identification. Mrs Smart says that she woke up to find herself being blindfolded in her bed. Her hands were then tied to the bedposts and she was raped. Even if her account were true, she never saw her attacker’s face. How can she possibly identify the defendant?’

  Barry Smith scoffed as he stood up to respond. ‘A rather compelling circumstantial case though, Your Honour. The rapist clearly must have entered with a key. The complainant is adamant that after ten years of marriage she knew her own husband when he was on top of her, as well as all the other matters already mentioned. Oh, and when interviewed by the police, the defendant answered “no comment” to all questions.’