every word. “How many times do I have to tell you?”
“And sober enough to remove the middle page of my client’s statement later that night to ensure you retired on a high?”
“I never removed anything that night,” Stern snapped back.
“Then the next morning perhaps?” said Sir Julian calmly. “I imagine you were sober enough to remove it the following morning.”
“And I was sober enough the night before to make sure the bastard got no more and certainly no less than he deserved,” shouted Stern, jabbing a finger in the direction of defense counsel.
A stony silence hung over the court, as everyone in the room stared at the witness.
“‘And I was sober enough the night before to make sure the bastard got no more and certainly no less than he deserved,’” repeated Sir Julian, returning Stern’s stare. “No further questions, My Lords.”
“You may step down, Mr. Stern,” said Lord Justice Arnott wearily.
As Stern made his way out of the court, Sir Julian looked up at the three judges, who were deep in conversation. Grace interrupted his thoughts when she leaned across and said, “I have to leave you for a moment. I won’t be long.”
Sir Julian nodded as his junior made her way quickly out of the courtroom, down the wide marble staircase, and onto the street, where a posse of photographers were waiting for a “today” photo of Faulkner as he left the court. Their only chance of getting a picture of Arthur Rainsford would be if he left the court as a free man.
Grace watched them from a distance for some time, before selecting the one whose eyes were continually on the lookout for a front-page picture. She crossed the road and whispered to him, “Can I have a private word?”
The snapper peeled away from the rest of the group and listened to her request.
“Only too delighted to help,” he said as Grace slipped him a five-pound note. “That won’t be necessary, miss,” he added, handing back the money. “Arthur Rainsford should never have gone to jail in the first place.”
30
The following morning Sir Julian arrived at the Royal Courts of Justice an hour before the trial was due to recommence. A clerk accompanied him and Grace down to the cells in the basement, so they could consult with their client.
“You demolished Stern,” said Arthur, shaking Sir Julian warmly by the hand. “If you’d represented me at my original trial, the verdict might well have gone the other way.”
“It’s kind of you to say so, Arthur, but while I may have landed the occasional blow, unfortunately I didn’t knock Stern out. And the fact remains, we’re in front of three high court judges, not a jury. Their lordships’ decision will be based not on reasonable doubt but on far more demanding criteria, before they can consider overturning the jury’s decision and declaring a miscarriage of justice. A great deal now depends on Professor Abrahams’s testimony.”
“I’m not altogether sure how the three venerable Solomons will react to the professor,” said Grace.
“Nor am I,” admitted Sir Julian. “But he’s our best hope.”
“You’ve still got Detective Sergeant Clarkson to cross-examine,” Arthur reminded him.
“Stern’s sidekick will only parrot what his master has already said. You can be sure he and Stern spent last night in a pub analyzing every one of my questions.” Sir Julian checked his watch. “We’d better get going. Can’t afford to keep their lordships waiting.”
* * *
“You ran rings around my wife yesterday, BW,” said Faulkner, over breakfast at the Savoy.
“Thank you, Miles. But when Palmer cross-examines you, you’ll still have to explain to the jury where the Rembrandt has been for the past seven years, how you got hold of it in the first place, and why you switched the labels on the crates. You’d better have some pretty convincing answers to all those questions, and several more besides, because Palmer will come at you all guns blazing.”
“I’ll be ready for him. And I’ve decided to make that sacrifice you recommended.”
“Very prudent. But keep that particular card up your sleeve for the time being, and leave me to decide when you should play it.”
“Understood, BW. So what happens next?”
“The Crown will put up Commander Hawksby, and he’ll undoubtedly back up your wife’s story. For him, she’s the lesser of two evils.”
“Then you’ll have to demolish him.”
“I don’t intend to cross-examine him.”
“Why not?” demanded Faulkner, as a waiter poured them more coffee.
“Hawksby’s an old pro, and juries trust him, so we need the commander out of harm’s way as