Part Five

On the Saturday morning, Jo Mills QC was sat in her garden, going through the mountain of evidence for the upcoming trial.  She had prosecuted many murderers in her time, but she didn't think she'd encountered anyone with quite so much audacity as Tracy Pilkinton, or Snowball Merriman, as everyone seemed to think of her.  Jo knew that the next two weeks were going to be extremely hard work.  But there was one good thing on the horizon, John would be presiding over this trial.  She didn't know how he'd managed to swing this trial, because it was full of possible bombshells and outed cover ups by the prison service.  Although Jo knew that at least three of her witnesses would be senior members of prison staff, she was also aware that they would be at all costs trying to eliminate any blame on their part for Merriman having been able to smuggle in explosives and construct a bomb.  Looking down her list of witnesses, Jo reflected that it would be an interesting trial if nothing else.  Three of her witnesses were prison staff, two were ex-cons and one a current inmate.  They alone would provide the central attraction of the circus ring of the Old Bailey.  The defendants would end up being a mere side show compared to this lot.  She also thought it more than likely that John would be asking as many questions of the witnesses as possible.  He wasn't the kind of man to pass up an opportunity of questioning the wife of the late Charlie Atkins, for example, and seeing that one of the defendants was the gangster's moll's son, Jo grinned.  There would be no end of fireworks with this trial.  Jo had met and talked to all of her witnesses, no silk would ever think of doing otherwise, and she knew that perhaps the most credible and honest of her witnesses was Yvonne Atkins herself.  Despite having been the wife and probably the backbone of the east London mob, she was open, honest and certainly wasn't backward in speaking her mind.  Jo grinned as she thought of a possible verbal tussle between John Deed and Yvonne Atkins.  That one would almost be worth videoing, even if that would have been breaking court rules.  When the person stood watching her said,

"What are you smiling about?" She looked up slightly startled.  Mr. Justice Deed, or John to his nearest and dearest was standing by the side gate to her garden watching her.  Opening the gate he walked over to her and sat down next to her on the garden bench.  Leaning over to kiss his cheek, she said,

"Where did you spring from?" 

"I was at a loose end, so thought I'd see how busy you are."  Jo gestured at the pile of papers on the garden table. 

"You're at a loose end? I don't know how with this trial coming up on Monday.  You should have more reading than I do." 

"I was rather hoping you'd make me a coffee," John said with a smile.  Placing her legal dictionary on top of the paper to stop the breeze dispersing her entire case over the garden, Jo moved towards the kitchen and her favourite choice of caffeine.  As she stood at the sink filling the kettle, John asked,

"So, what were you grinning about?" 

"Oh, just the thought of you tangling with one of my witnesses, Yvonne Atkins."  John laughed. 

"Yes, I've a feeling that might be an experience for all concerned." 

"Well, as long as you don't manage to do Cantwell's job for him and pull her evidence to shreds, she's the best witness I've got." 

"The most reliable witness you have is the wife of a gangster?" 

"Was the wife of a gangster, he's dead now.  You might remember how he was blown to bits on the steps of the Bailey about two years ago." 

"Oh yes," Said John, clearly remembering something.  "And they never found the person who did it, did they?" 

"No, and I'd appreciate it if that little can of worms wasn't opened this week." 

"So, you think she had something to do with it after all?" 

"I don't know," Said Jo truthfully.  "I've spoken to her a couple of times, we've gone over her evidence for this trial and she seems honest enough, for someone who hired a hit man, that is.  Besides, she was still in prison when that happened.  If I was being asked to put my money on anyone for the murder of Charlie Atkins, I'd be betting on the daughter, Lauren.  But that case was closed long ago, and far be it from me to try and re-open it." 

"And especially not before you've convicted the son," He said quietly. 

"Don't even think about it, John," Jo said, a frown marring the unobtrusive beauty of her face. 

"Okay," He said, "Point taken.  this trial's going to be interesting if nothing else." 

"Have you come here to gen up on my witnesses as usual?" She said, clearly having seen this routine from him before. 

"Who better to give me an insight?" He asked. 

"As long as I have a cast iron promise from you that you won't jeopardize them in court." 

"Come on, Jo, you know me better than that.  I no longer make promises that I can't swear to keep." 

"Do you know something?" She said, slightly rising to the bate.  "I'm beginning to think the LCD's right." 

"God forbid," He said.  "If Sir Ian Rochester and his sidekick Lawrence James are ever right about anything, it's a sad day for the rest of us." 

"I just mean their little argument about barristers appearing in front of people they have a history with, like you and me for instance.  You do this every time there's an interesting trial with me acting for the prosecution, though you've even done it with the defence on a couple of occasions." 

"done what?" He said, still trying to goad her.  Jo cast a long suffering glance at the fresh Brazilian coffee she was taking out of the freezer. 

"This! Asking me to give you the lowdown on my witnesses.  The really sad thing is that I always capitulate to your request."  John grinned. 

"what, a little like the old days, just a different request?"  Jo lifted the packet of coffee, as if to throw it at him, then as if realising the value of Brazilian coffee, simply laughed. 

"I'm too good to you," She said, filling the caffetiere. 

When they were again sat outside, Jo began going through her line up. 

"First there's Karen Betts, the wing governor from Larkhall.  She's complicated because she started an affair with Ritchie Atkins, just before Merriman came to Larkhall.  He managed to use his affiliation with her to bring suspicion on her and to plant the gun in her handbag." 

"Really nice guy, our Mr. Ritchie Atkins," Mused John.  Jo continued. 

"Then there's Yvonne Atkins, and you know enough about her to be going on with.  Following her there's a prison officer James Fenner, and I don't like him one little bit.  Apart from Lawrence James, he's the slimiest, creepiest man I've ever had the misfortune to meet.  Then there's the prison governor, Neil Grayling, and he's definitely got something to hide.  I'm not sure what yet, but he could probably challenge Ritchie Atkins for a stake in the oily snake of the century awards.  After him, there's a current inmate of Larkhall, Alison McKenzie, an ex-inmate, Barbara Hunt, and one of the visitors who was there for the open day when the explosion took place." 

"Sounds like you've got it all wrapped up to me," Said John, clearly impressed with her array of witnesses. 

"I'll keep the jury entertained, that's for sure," replied Jo cynically.  "but this isn't wrapped up by any means, John.  I haven't even started and I know that this ride is going to be one of the rockiest yet.  You've got to have guts to do all the things those two have done, and Merriman's guts certainly haven't run out up to now.  She's come this far, and she isn't going to give up anytime in the near future." 

Part Six

Sir Ian Rochester looked out of the window of his spacious Whitehall office wondering why fate had such a nasty sense of irony and playing jokes at his expense. His role in life was in smoothing out awkward areas in the relationship between the administration of the Lord Chancellor’s Department and the proud, bewigged judges whom from time immemorial were free to run their courts the way they saw fit. It took certain bonhomie in being able to tactfully remind the odd judge who got the bit between his teeth and sound off in ways that caused political embarrassment. OK to say these things in the Carlton Club when it was known no one would talk, after all, they all went to Oxford together didn’t they? With his combined gifts of ever so gentle threat, a velvet glove worn over an iron hand, and his alternative guise of upmarket used car dealer, he had been effortlessly carried up the promotion ladder. Until, one unkind joke was perpetrated on him, John Deed, who some fool appointed as a circuit judge and became a constant thorn in his side. First time Deed greeted him, he smiled at him but with that look of mockery in his eyes and said something about sitting down over a glass of port and reminiscing about our schooldays, ‘the happiest days in our lives.’ The fellow went to Oxford too, but the obstinate fellow was a renegade and didn’t play the game.

Another very bad joke was the court case of the Crown versus Pilkinton / Atkins.

When he’d heard this one originally, this was an open and shut case that he was sure would never come his way. This common English tart had gone to Hollywood and gone native. She was picked up by the police in Florida where she lived after murdering a photographer. The report said she stabbed him 17 times after getting into an argument. She’d sneaked out in disguise right under the noses of the local gun toting American police and caught the next flight home to England. She’d tried to walk through customs in England carrying a large volume of cocaine, enough to put her well into the league of drug smuggling. What caused his blood pressure to rise was that she’d walked through American customs and she had got clean away with it. The officious clods in the police force clapped her into the nearest secure prison which had a space, a place called Larkhall till she could get tried for drug smuggling.

Now our American cousins, with all their gun laws and tough talk now started bleating to us that they wanted the bloody woman tried in Florida for the murder over there. As far as he was concerned, it was quite simple. Their crime was bigger than ours, the woman who called herself Snowball Merriman wants to be an American so she might as well

face justice over there and get her out of our hair.

He thought it such a cut and dried case that the extradition hearing was farmed out to the first judge that took an interest in it. After all the sentence that that Pilkinton woman now serving for smuggling is nothing compared to the murder charge she faces back in Florida…nor the death sentence that almost certainly comes with it. The whole matter went out of his mind while he had other things to do until a copy of the court judgment popped up in his in tray which he casually opened.

Application by the Federal State of Florida, USA for Tracy Pilkinton to be extradited to Florida to be charged for the offence of first degree murder.

At Holborn Crown Court hearing on October 18^th 2002, the application for extradition was  rejected until the expiry of the custodial sentence in the United Kingdom for smuggling a Class ‘A’ drug with the intent to supply.

It was held that

(1)   The sentence of Tracy Pilkinton on August 7^th 2002 was rightfully determined on the charge of unlawfully smuggling in a kilo of cocaine with the intent to supply.

(2)   That Tracy Pilkinton  should serve the term of imprisonment at Her Majesties Prison for seven years following the sentence

(3) That, on the expiry of this sentence, a fresh application to extradite Tracy Pilkinton

      should be submitted by the Federal State of Florida before a freshly constituted court    

      to determine whether or not Miss Pilkinton is to be brought before the Federal Court

      of Florida for the charge of murder of Wayne Kramer, a photographer of the state of   

      Florida.

Sir Ian skipped through the statement of facts of the double crime until his eye stopped at the relevant paragraphs.

11……………It did not help the case of the Federal State of Florida that the application for extradition was not made contemporaneously, in contravention of international law of which the Plaintiff should have been made well aware. However this is a relative side issue to the matter upon which I must decide……..

12……….The question at the heart of the matter is that Tracy Pilkinton is charged with capital murder in the state of Florida and has been convicted of intent to supply Class A drugs in England. Both events, or alleged events, took place within a matter of hours on the same day in question. The question I have to consider is whether or not both unrelated charges which had they been pursued simultaneously at the same court hearing would have had the result of concurrent or consecutive sentences if Tracy Pilkinton were found guilty on both counts. The judgement by Lord Denning which I find most persuasive is that the sentences would have been consecutive on the grounds that the sentence for the lesser charge would have been otherwise “overlapped” by the sentence for the greater charge. The fact is that, in actual point of fact, the second charge was never put at the court hearing which determined the first charge, is all the more persuasive. I am mindful that the judicial sentence for the charge of murder in Florida can attract the death penalty by electrocution but this matter, for the reasons I have set out in this judgement, is a matter of degree rather than that of principle.

14………..I am mindful of the difficulties I have placed before the Court in the Federal State of Florida in appearing to place an embargo on proceedings against Tracy Pilkinton for the charge which there is every expectation that should be pursued. This judgement should not be misconstrued as a legal precedent or test case that a British Citizen can escape the consequences of charges made by another country for crimes which that citizen has committed in that country.  It is a matter of international law that the weight and value of evidence should not be diminished by the passage of time in this particular type of case and that so long as the evidence is suitably compiled, including witness statements, then justice for the second charge will be done and be seen to be done, albeit the execution of the justice will be deferred.

Judge Michael Nivin                                October 18^th 2002

“Bad news, Sir Ian.” Lawrence James broke into his thoughts which, judging by the scowl on his face, was hardly an intuitive leap of the imagination. Sir Ian could have sworn that the light reflecting off his grey shiny suit alerted him to Lawrence James presence fractionally before his loud voice did.

“The worst, Lawrence.” Sir Ian’s weak angry tones replied. ”Of all the cases which ought never to have ended up this way, it’s that Americanised woman Tracy Pilkinton that Nivin was weak-minded enough not to have thrown over to the Americans to deal with and save this Department a lot of trouble. Now the British Taxpayer has to foot the bill, and all the time and trouble also.”

“You mean us.” Lawrence James cut to the chase or Sir Ian would have waffled on all day.

“That’s what I mean, obviously,” Sir Ian squinted wondering why Lawrence James hadn’t learnt the knack for smoothing out rough edges.

“It isn’t too late is it, depending on which judge gets it. He might think it was unsafe to proceed with the trial of fresh charges that, obviously, Nivin was unaware of.”

“God hopes so, anyway.”

 “So long as Deed doesn’t play God. That would be very unfortunate. Very unfortunate indeed.” Sir Ian savoured the last words slowly though exactly unfortunate for whom, Sir Ian in his oblique way never made clear.

Part Seven

On the morning of Monday the 18th of august, Karen was running round the house like a headless chicken.  Keys, make up, purse, cigarettes, none of them was in its proper place this morning.  The first blouse she put on, she spilt coffee over, and the second was missing a button.  Finally settling on a two piece in light blue, she gathered up what remained of her resolve and left the house.  Driving through the center of London on a Monday morning was never fun, but the traffic seemed to be extraordinarily slow today.  Everyone seemed to be heading in the direction of the old Bailey, but that must have been her imagination.  Then, switching on the radio she discovered just why it was proving so difficult to get to the court this morning.  The newsreader on Capital Radio was saying, 

"and this week sees the beginning of the trial of the infamous Snowball Merriman and her accomplice Ritchie Atkins, son of the late Charlie Atkins, leader of the east London mob for many years.  Snowball Merriman is accused of causing the explosion that took place at Larkhall prison in south London in June last year."  Karen turned off in disgust. 

When she eventually reached the car park of the Old Bailey, she pulled in to a space reserved for witnesses.  Within a couple of minutes, Yvonne's red Farari cruised up beside her.  As Karen got out of her car, she remembered something she'd meant to say to Yvonne before they went inside the court.  Whilst Yvonne was touching up her lipstick, Karen opened the passenger door and slid in next to her. 

"Looking forward to the circus?" Said Yvonne dryly, looking at herself in the driving mirror. 

"About as much as you are," Replied Karen.  "I need to ask you something before we go inside.  Are you carrying anything, anything you shouldn't be?"  Yvonne gave her a cursory glance and then returned to her face. 

"No," She said noncommittally. 

"Because they have a trend in courts these days to run a scanner over you looking for anything metal."  The words were perfectly innocuous when taken at face value, but they had a marked effect on Yvonne.  Her exclamation of "Shit!" appeared to be the word of the day.  Dropping the lipstick in her handbag, she leaned down to remove something that was clearly strapped to her ankle, under the leg of her trousers. 

"I did wonder," Said Karen dryly.  When Karen saw the tiny pistol that so snugly fitted in to the palm of Yvonne's hand, she just stared.  Yvonne, sliding out the car stereo felt behind it for the one really safe place her car possessed.  Having hidden the gun, she replaced the radio.  Karen watched with the kind of fascination onlookers have for horrific road accidents. 

"Are you completely bloody stupid?" She asked quietly.  Yvonne looked at her. 

"No," She said matter-of-factly, "I'd just like to make it through this trial alive, that's all."  Karen seemed to relocate the voice that always signified her as a wing governor. 

"If they'd found that on you, you'd have been back in Larkhall quicker than the Julies on a bad day.  Is that what you want?"  Yvonne wasn't in the mood for this first thing on a Monday morning. 

"No," She said carefully, trying to keep her anger at Karen's naivety under control.  "But do you have any idea just how many contacts those two still have?" It went unsaid that she was referring to Ritchie and Snowball. 

"They've both been in segregation for months," Karen persisted.  This was too much for Yvonne. 

"When will you take off that suit long enough to realise that being down the block means piss all when it comes to getting hold of people on the outside.  There's any number of people who would finish me off for Ritchie, most of them used to be business acquaintances of me and Charlie.  Karen, even though I've given up all the stuff Charlie was involved in, there are still people out there who have a loaded interest in getting rid of me, and all Ritchie would provide is the excuse." 

"I had no idea," Karen said quietly.  Yvonne began to calm down. 

"That's because I've tried to keep that part of my life under wraps from you.  Not because you used to lock me up for a living, but because with you I usually manage to forget all the things I used to be."  Karen simply stared at her, slightly stunned by what Yvonne had just said.  "So," Yvonne continued, now back to her normal self, "Now that we've both come down off our high horses, shall we go in, because I think we're being spied on by the king of all bastards."  Turning to follow the direction of Yvonne's gesturing hand, Karen saw Jim Fenner, standing next to the open door of his Audi, staring at her and Yvonne with such an incredulous look on his face that it made Karen laugh. 

"He looks like he's just been offered a quickie from Body bag," Said Yvonne with a grin.  Karen didn't know whether to laugh or feel ill at the mental image that brought to mind.  As they got out of the car, Karen asked,

"Did you hear the radio on the way here?"  Yvonne's expression was rueful. 

"Yeah.  So much for an impartial jury."  As Fenner walked towards them, he said,

"Getting our stories straight already, are we?" 

"We've got nothing to hide, Fenner," was Yvonne's terse reply. 

"We'll see, Atkins, we'll see," He said, the look of blissful glee on his face almost unnerving to both of them. 

"You're going to be the one explaining how he was taken in by a porn movie actress," Continued Yvonne.  "Promise you a personal performance if you kept quiet, did she?" 

"Shut it, Atkins," Was his only response.  "Just because you're on the right side of the bars doesn't mean you always will be."  The threat was clear. 

"Am I going to be refereeing between you two all day?" Asked Karen. 

"Not if you know where your loyalties lie," Said Fenner silkily. 

"Good job for Karen they're not with you," Remarked Yvonne.  As Fenner took a breath for his next retort, Karen let them have it. 

"cut it out, right now, the both of you," She said.  "this is neither the time nor the place, and I am not spending hours on end listening to the pair of you sniping at each other.  None of us want to be here, but unfortunately we're stuck with each other for the foreseeable."  Walking off towards the court building, she left Yvonne and Fenner watching her, slightly feeling like a pair of schoolchildren having been put in their place.  "Could wield a whip, that one."  Remarked Fenner. 

"I wouldn't know," replied Yvonne. 

Once inside the Old Bailey, the three of them were shown to one of the many witness rooms.  It was a while before the trial was due to start, and Lauren had elected to be picked up by Cassie and Roisin on their way there.  They were soon joined by Jo Mills.  She'd obviously spoken to all her witnesses before this, but this was the first time she'd seen any of them interact with each other. 

"Yvonne, you're on first," She said.  "That'll probably be this afternoon.  They'll have the opening speeches this morning and then break for lunch.  I don't expect to call either you Karen or you Jim until tomorrow, but these things aren't set in stone." 

"What about the others?" Asked Fenner. 

"The other five witnesses haven't been called till later in the week."  Jo pulled a piece of paper from one of her numerous notebooks. 

"Neil Grayling, Alison McKenzie, Barbara Hunt, Henry Mills and Ajit Kahn."  At the last name Yvonne said,

"You what?" Jo looked slightly surprised. 

"do you have a problem with this witness?"  Yvonne brought her expression back under control. 

"No, of course not," She said, clearly trying to convince herself more than anybody else. 

"When I spoke to him," Jo went on, "He said that he answer the Chaplin’s phone to Ritchie Atkins asking for Snowball Merriman.  But then you know this because this is part of your evidence as well." 

"Sure," Said Yvonne.  "I just didn't expect them to contact him, that's all." 

"It was him who contacted the police after the explosion, and we need his evidence to make yours believable."  Karen was staring at Yvonne, wondering just what Yvonne was afraid of.  Soon after this, Jo left them and Karen volunteered to get some coffee.  As soon as she'd left the room, Fenner started in on Yvonne. 

"Getting very pally with our Miss Betts aren't you, Atkins?" 

"Someone's got to keep an eye on you," Replied Yvonne. 

"What's that supposed to mean?" He asked. 

"Well," Said Yvonne getting out her cigarettes.  "Locked up in a place like that with you all day? Isn't safe for any woman if you ask me." 

"Now you listen to me, Atkins," Said Fenner, clearly riled.  "Just you stay away from her.  She doesn't need your bad influence." 

"I think Karen is perfectly capable of deciding who is and isn't a bad influence on her, not that I think anyone could be if they tried."  Fenner was about to continue his side of the argument when Karen appeared carrying three cups of machine coffee.  At the silence that greeted her, she figured they'd been talking about her.  When they'd all lit up cigarettes, they sat in a slightly uneasy silence. 

"I can't possibly keep this up for long," Thought Karen, whilst Yvonne was itching to begin another verbal tussle with Fenner, but kerbing her tongue for Karen's sake.  In utter frustration Yvonne left, returning five minutes later with a selection of newspapers. 

"I got this especially for you," She said, handing Fenner a copy of The Sun, and dumping the others on the table between her and Karen.  "It seems the canteen in here sells it to get all the ancient male barristers fired up for their appearance on stage."  Digging out a copy of The Times from the pile, she found the crossword and settled in for something slightly more brain taxing than continuously taking the piss out of Fenner.  Even that could get boring after a while.  Filling in the answer for three across, she briefly wondered whether the judge in this trial read The Times or The Sun before a case. 

Part Eight

John Deed had a rare moment of peace and tranquility in the morning while Coope passed back and forth. As someone who was unruffled, quiet and organised, she was a necessary part of his existence and was the one clerk who had got used to his habits that drove to distraction some of her predecessors. He stretched back in his chair and opened up the Times from which the useless and unwanted supplements fell out onto the floor. Bending carefully over, he extracted the thin “Sports Supplement” for the educated readers of Hampstead Heath who had the unaccountable desire to ‘move with the times’ and join the national obsession with footballers and the mysterious and utterly uninteresting differences between the various teams.

“Do I really want to read yet another article about David Beckham?” He sighed, recalling more unpleasant times from his old school when he had pushed at the limits of ducking out of compulsory rugby which was a sport that he loathed and detested. Fencing was the sport which attracted him, the precisely poised, cool nerve articulation of the practiced hand and bodily positioning and the rapidly calculating brain. It was a private sport practiced alone with your best friend who had a similar understanding and appreciation of an ancient skill. As skilled practitioners it rooted them in an unbroken chain back into the Middle Ages in the same way as his calling to the Bar anchored him in England’s ancient liberties. Both gave him standards to uphold, much needed in this slipshod modern world. In the same way, he felt that a virtuoso concert violinist occupied the same assured reach back for that strength in tradition. Being steeped in these values, he remained bemused that the fifth raters like Sir Ian Rochester could ever hope to bend him to their will.

While his shapeless musings flitted their way through space and time in the rare moments when he had that luxury, Coope announced that he had two visitors who wanted to see him urgently. A combination of the peremptory knock and Coope’s expression told him to expect trouble. John Deed glanced at the headlines for the forthcoming trial of Tracy Pilkinton and Ritchie Atkins and, with no stretch of the imagination, concluded that this may have something to do with the visitors so he carefully folded the paper in two so that the front page was invisible to even the likes of Sherlock Holmes, let alone these two authority figures, as blind as they were arrogant.

John Deed sighed as the besuited forms of Sir Ian Rochester and his overzealous sidekick Lawrence James sat down before he was going to politely offer them to take a seat, as is their habit.

“John, old man” Sir Ian spoke with false heartiness. ”We thought we would just drop by while we are in the area and have an informal chat.” The fixed smile on Sir Ian’s face did not deceive John Deed who noticed the hard glitter in his eye.

“Oh yes.” John Deed said in a languid tone. “Pray continue with what you’ve rushed away from holding the Lord Chancellor’s hand and are burning to tell me.”

“I suppose you’ve read all about it in the papers, John old man,” Sir Ian continued, grasping for an easy point of entry to his ready made schpiel.

“About what, Ian?” John Deed summoned up a convincing appearance of being in total ignorance of Sir Ian’s tortuous hinting. Teasing the pair of them gave him mild amusement.” I’m a busy man these days so you will have to enlighten me.”

Sir Ian’s smile became more of a grimace and he reached automatically for a pencil in his inside jacket pocket which he fiddled with and promptly broke in two.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about, Deed. It’s on the front page of the Times. Don’t you read it, dammit? ”Sir Ian’s false heartiness reverted to his normal feelings of enmity that was twice as strong as his force of personality. “It’s this infernal Tracy Pilkinton trial……..”

John Deed affected an annoyingly leisurely perusal in depth of the article though, in truth, he had combed through it very carefully in relation to the trial documents. In the silence, Sir Ian was shuffling his feet while Lawrence James grew more stony faced.

“We have important business with the Minister shortly. We did not come to be treated with your usual lack of respect.” Lawrence James said, breaking the stony silence.

“So what scintillating words of wisdom have you to offer me.” John Deed said, laying the papers down knowing full well what they were after.

“Only this, old man.” Sir Ian desperately reverted to smarming his way through Deed’s priggish obstinacy. ”It’s just that we, in the Lord Chancellor’s Department feel that Nivin’s judgment in the extradition hearing was fundamentally unsound. It did not go down well with the Minister mark my words.” Sir Ian’s behaviour bordering on the manic. ”The minister felt that, well reasoned though Nivin’s judgment was in its way…”

“…..I thought it was well reasoned in every way……” murmured John Deed.

“………it did not take full regard of the feelings of the family of the murdered photographer in Florida. After all, you stand for human justice as, don’t we all.” Here Sir Ian almost looked as if he was girding up his loins to stand up for the weak. ”So why not, old chap, and press for this wrong headed judgment to be overturned………..”

They’re afraid of political embarrassment, that’s all it is, John Deed’s inner ear spoke clearly above Sir Ian’s blandishments as he carried on in this vein for quite the most repetitious fifteen minutes he had ever endured. At least when he threatened and blustered, the man was out in the open.

“My mind is made up, Ian and well you know, nothing you have said can sway it.” John Deed finished in his quiet tones which cut through Sir Ian’s noisy outpourings.

Sir Ian glared like a goldfish who had found that banging up against the invisible glass sides of the bowl wasn’t going to work. He backed off and tried another angle.

“Another thing, the minister wanted to impress on us, Deed.” Sir Ian said ponderously, ”Is that the circuit judges have brought on themselves a somewhat elitist and antiquated outlook. In this modern age you should be prepared, shall I say, to bend to the winds of modern times….………Like that Sports supplement which I am sure you have thrown away as part of your exhibitionist way of proclaiming that you are living in a backwater while the rest of the human beings move on elsewhere…… ”

“………..Yes , yes, Ian. You will recall our Biology teacher a long time ago who said that the activities of the poor lemmings in simultaneously hurling themselves off a cliff was one not to be admired or emulated. Her words were ones that I remember well. Nice legs as well, I remember,” at which point John Deed smiled wickedly.

“As it happens, I am intending to buy a football shirt for my leisure times and show that I have moved up with the times even though a stuffy stick in the mud like you will remain in isolation….”

“Never were any use at rugby at school were you, Ian.” murmured John Deed just loud enough to be heard. “You always seemed to develop a mysterious limp just before games. At least I refused to indulge in a barbaric game out of principle……….”

Sir Ian finally went red in the face and grasped Lawrence James’s silk suit irretrievably creasing the right shoulder pad and hustled him out of the room before Deed revealed more of the weasely sneak of a schoolboy that he had been. He hustled Lawrence James out of the door with more strength and force than his general build suggested he possessed and the door slammed bang shut behind them.

“Didn’t they want to stop for a glass of sherry?” Coope asked innocently.

“I’m afraid that they had to dash off to queue up for David  Beckham’s autograph.” John Deed said with a straight face so even Coope wasn’t sure if this was a case of the judge’s whimsical sense of humour.

John Deed had other matters on his mind as he assumed the rich red robes and wig of his profession. It was not that he was a snob about these matters, just that he had the same sense of ritual and performance as a Shakespearean actor did at the Globe. It would have cheapened the occasion to have dressed otherwise and in this, John Deed was steeped in tradition which he trusted more than this modern age however liberal his political inclinations were.

He made his way with his measured tread out onto his own stage, the judge's throne upon which he sat on high, overseeing the characters in a play that would determine the fate of two individuals in what promised to be a complicated case. He looked down on the severely robed figures of the chief protagonists, the slim shape of Jo Mills in more formal attire than when he had last seen her and the portly shape of Brian Cantwell. There was this moment of silent anticipation in the court before John Deed’s sonorous tones let the play commence.