False Witness Read Online Free

waiting for a charter flight to Torremolinos and had been delayed yet again.
    Leonard shuffled the cards and selected twelve of this jury panel at random. They were strangers to each other, strangers
     to the law—they didn’t even know what the case was about. And I knew nothing about them. The law specifically prevents two
     classes of persons from being on a jury: criminals and lawyers. Apart from that, they could be virtually anybody. And they
     were to decide whether Richard Kingsley murdered Molly Summers.
    I wished it was a Friday. Friday at the Old Bailey: fish served in the Bar Mess and a diet of rape and buggery pleas downstairs.
     Friday was a day of reckoning. Not too many people pretended they were innocent on a Friday. But there we were in Court 8
     on a bright Monday morning. Start of the week, start of the trials, high-water mark of the hopeless defense, and despite all
     my efforts, Kingsley’s case was to be no different.
    As each of the jurors was sworn, I hurriedly drafted a notice of alibi, including the name of Philip Templeman. When I had
     given it to the prosecution team, the trial began.

C HAPTER F OUR
    “M EMBERS OF THE JURY,” SAID A UBREY D AVENPORT QC, the prosecution leader, “the evidence that Richard Kingsley murdered Molly Summers is overwhelming. But”—here Davenport
     glanced at the judge—“but Mr. Kingsley has pleaded not guilty.”
    Like many large men, Davenport had a slightly high-pitched voice, as though a tape of his speech was being played back at
     the wrong speed. He was eighteen stones, pigeon-toed and had a revolting mustache, all of which made me suspicious of him.
     He whistled Puccini arias at the Old Bailey urinals, always ate red meat, never drank white wine, and salivated at the sight
     of female jurors. He was mediocre at speeches, passable in cross-examination, yet prided himself on his eloquence, which was
     his incorrect diagnosis of a chronic bout of verbal flatulence.
    But the most disgusting thing about Aubrey Davenport, and it was a truly disgusting thing amid stiff competition, was his
     special knack for inserting his fat tongue into women’s ears in the backs of taxis. What astonished me was that surprisingly
     few complained, and when they did, it was more an objection to his rough bristle on their earlobes rather than to the insertion
     of the offending organ in the first place.
    At the front of Court 8, Davenport licked his lips and said, “So to this, the most serious of charges, the defendant has pleaded
     not guilty. That is his right. But after you’ve heard all the evidence, if you’re sure he killed this sixteen-year-old girl
     in cold blood, you will convict him of murder. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is your right.”
    Mr. Justice Manly scowled, not at Kingsley but at me, his eyes brooded and I imagined his lips whispering unknown indignities
     to come. He scribbled something down in his red, leather-bound notebook.
    Earlier, Manly had invited all counsel into his private chambers. It was an invitation that could not be refused. He asked
     me if I could indicate which issues were likely to arise, which was coded language for: What on earth is your defense? I told
     him that I didn’t know and then looked around the room, trying to avoid his eyes.
    Manly’s chambers were little different to those of the other Old Bailey judges. The room was full of dark wood, somber leather
     and the mauled bones of defense counsel who had said the wrong thing. But above his desk, Manly had a rather badly painted
     watercolor. It was of a Caribbean beach with gaily painted fishing boats and the sun breaking through onto distant mountains.
     I had always liked it.
    Judges’ chambers are that part of the law the public is not allowed to see. They are half private club, half trading room.
     The commodities are familiar enough: crime and punishment, probation and prison. But it was the secrecy that used to make
     me feel guilty, the skulking around