False Witness Read Online Free Page A

behind closed doors. It was as if I had entered into an alliance against my client, as
     if he was being auctioned and no bid would be too low. And I felt that another kind of judge, who was even more formidable
     than Ignatius Manly, had entered a mark against my name in a book that was even darker than his.
    After Davenport had been speaking for fifteen minutes, two things had begun to happen. His elephantine frame began to break
     out in sweat, and the jury started to glaze over. They sat there bemused, somewhat embarrassed to be in the spotlight, trying
     desperately not to fidget or yawn. No one volunteers for such a job. The electoral roll spins and there they are: dragged,
     if not kicking and screaming, then with a certain reluctance from their sitting rooms, betting shops, public houses and dole
     offices.
    When I started at the Bar, I was told to look at the jury carefully. Work out who they were, how they would vote, what made
     them tick. Get to know your jury. Who were the movers and who were the muppets? I soon discovered that it was a futile exercise.
     I had little idea about the people I knew well and, at times, even less about myself. So what was the point?
    The more trials I did, the more frightened I became of the jury. They smiled at my jokes, they nodded during my cross-examinations,
     they took notes during my speeches, and then they convicted my clients. And every time I felt a personal insult, a sense of
     rejection.
    Davenport stood facing the jury unashamedly adjusting the rolls of flesh that convened around his midriff. He said, “There
     are a couple of questions you will want answered, members of the jury. Firstly, you may ask, where is Stone-bury? Well, it
     is set in a valley surrounded by the gentle hills of the Devon and Dorset borders.”
    There seemed to be no hint of recognition on the faces of the jurors. That, at least, was a good sign.
    But Davenport continued, “More importantly, what was so different about Molly Summers? Well, nothing really. For years she’d
     been in care, moved from foster home to foster home. It’s right to say that she ran away occasionally. That she didn’t settle.
     And she finally ended up in a residential home in Stonebury. The home is called the West Albion. You might hear a little about
     it during the course of the trial.”
    A little, I thought. Why only a little? Surely the home was at the center of this? My musings were interrupted by Davenport’s
     change of tone.
    He paused, looked at the jury and dropped his voice. “West Albion is the type of center that is run by local authorities when
     there are children with certain… difficulties. Perhaps the defense will make much of this. I don’t know. The problems these
     girls might have had does not, cannot excuse violence toward them. Keep your eyes on the ball, members of the jury. Why—that
     is the real question—why would anyone want to murder Molly Summers? This young girl… poor, lonely… and in eyes of the law,
     innocent… this truly innocent girl—”
    I got to my feet. “M’Lord, I hesitate to object.”
    “Well, hesitate a little longer,” said Manly. There were a few sniggers around the court.
    “But, really. M’friend knows perfectly well that it is highly undesirable for prosecuting counsel to use such emotive language.”
    Davenport turned on me. “Is my friend suggesting that innocence is an emotive word?”
    “The prosecution is not supposed to excite prejudice against a defendant.”
    “I was not.”
    “What were you doing?” I asked.
    “Exciting sympathy for the girl.”
    “The dead girl,” I said, and as soon as I had, I knew it was a mistake. There was no sound in court, but I could feel my heart
     pounding as all eyes fixed upon me. I felt as though the blood was draining from my legs and I sat down.
    “Ladies and gentlemen,” said Manly, turning to the jury and ignoring us. He folded his hands and closed his eyes as if he
     were about to pray. At that