Smith

FIFTY SEVEN

  THE VERDICT

  Monday 11 January 2009

  “Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury,” Judge Anderson began, “before you reach a verdict, I want to make it very clear that you are to concentrate only on the facts that have been given to you today.”

  Judge Sylvia Anderson was the youngest female judge in British history. This was the first murder case she had presided over; it was in fact only the third case of any description in which the thirty two year old was in charge and she knew very well that she was under the microscope. Any blunder this early in her career would be fatal.

  “Our fickle friends in the press,” she continued, “are prone to cast judgement long before the law has run its course. I want you to base your decision today, not on what you may have read in the papers but on what you heard today in this courtroom. Is that clear?”

  It had been one of the shortest murder trials in history. There were no material witnesses and the only character witnesses were Frank Paxton and Roxy Jones. Jones had already confessed to two murders and Paxton had been romantically involved with one of Jones’ victims. Martin Willow’s defence council had prudently decided they would not make very good witnesses. All the evidence was limited to the scene of the crime; Willow was found at the murder scene, unharmed and covered in blood. Willow’s daughter was still in a coma and his amnesia plea was weak.

  It took a jury of respected members of the community approximately thirty minutes to return to the courtroom with a guilty verdict. Judge Anderson sighed. The defence council did not even decide to lodge an appeal.

  “You have been found guilty of one count of murder,” Judge Anderson said to Martin Willow, “and one count of attempted murder. Because of the despicable nature of these crimes I have no alternative but to sentence you to life imprisonment.”

  Martin Willow sank to his knees.

  “I didn’t do it,” he sobbed.

  The volume of noise in the courtroom rose.

  “Order!” Judge Anderson shouted but she was ignored.

  “Take him away,” she said, “quickly.”

  Outside the Court House, Detective Constable Bridge could tell from the journalists shuffling around that the trial was over. They were quickly forming a barrier in front of the main entrance. The prosecutor emerged and was instantly engulfed by microphones. Camera flashes lit up the grey winter half light. People began to leave the Court House and descend the stairs. One of them, a man in his forties wearing a duffel coat, quickly walked down the steps and carried on walking down the road. He was wearing a beanie and dark sunglasses. Bridge watched as he opened the driver’s door of a taxi cab, closed the door and drove away. What Bridge did not see was the smile on Dave Lin’s face as he looked in the rear view mirror. It was a smile he would be wearing for a very long time.