Court Out

Chapter Ten





The trial begins as any other would. Fifteen members of the public are shepherded into the courtroom. They look wide-eyed and nervous and they stare around their new environment with a mix of wonder and fear. Given the huge public profile of the trial, most of them are openly staring at Hobbs.

The selection begins; the court usher pulls twelve names from a box containing the full fifteen and the chosen few are directed to take a seat in the jury box. I take a note of the names of the panel in my notebook and briefly glance up to see if there is anyone there I recognise. There isn’t and the twelve are successfully selected without incident.

The Judge turns and speaks to the jury. He’s a somewhat familiar face to the senior members who practice on this circuit, but as he normally only deals with heavy-duty work I rarely get to appear in front of him. His face is heavily lined and his voice has a mesmerising gravelly texture. He’s known for being fair, wise and having a brain the size of a small planet.

He reminds the jury of their role during the trial and that they are only to discuss the case with their fellow jurors, not to post things on Facebook and Twitter (you’d be amazed how often this happens) and should anything happen to them that causes their concern, to draw it to the attention of the jury bailiff straight away. A few of the jurors look alarmed at this point. The Judge laughs.

“Please don’t worry, it’s a standard direction I have to give you. It’s like when you fly on an airplane. You get told about the inflatable chute, but you very rarely ever have to use it. Just remember, if anything concerns you during the course of the trial, I’m your flight steward, so to speak.”

This prompts a few nervous titters from the jury, but visibly relaxes them.

After a nod from the Judge, Corr gets to his feet and turns to face them. He opens the case, instantly capturing the attention of the eager faces watching him. He’s a master storyteller and is delicately weaving the known facts of the case around the inferences he wants the jury to draw when they hear other pieces of evidence.

His voice is hypnotising and I can almost see them being charmed before my eyes, like snakes dancing to the hum of a well-tuned flute. By the time he is finishes a couple of hours later, I know that there isn’t a single person out of the twelve who isn’t already convinced Hobbs is guilty. I feel a swell of pride to be connected to such a great advocate.

Eventually, we break for lunch mid-way through the evidence of the first witness, Helen Drew. She was the cleaner who found Marina’s body that fateful morning floating in their pool. She’s spent the past hour reliving every gory moment of her discovery.

Having arrived at the house at 9AM to start her usual shift, she noticed that the home was unusually silent. A brief check of the garages revealed that Hobbs’ car was conspicuous by its absence and the marital bed appeared not to have been slept in. After concluding that the pair had gone away for the night she started her extensive cleaning routine as normal, noticing that aside from the normal carnage, there were a large number of clothes missing from Marina’s walk in wardrobe and a bottle of champagne had been smashed on the kitchen floor.

It was only when she began to clean some pans at the sink she happened to look out into the garden and saw what she assumed was a bin bag in the pool that she went outside.

When we come back after lunch, we’ll hear the rest. It must have been terrible for the poor woman, I mean imagine going to fish out some rubbish from your employers’ luxury garden accessory and ending up fishing out your employer.

I switch off my laptop and trip over the power cord as I step out from behind my bench. I’m not that hungry so I think I’ll spend the hour-long break looking over some of the photographs taken at the scene.

The others file out and I open up the folder that contains them. I locate the picture of the broken bottle of champagne. The glossy green bottle has been smashed into a million pieces on the black and white chequerboard kitchen floor but parts of the pale yellow label are still visible. It’s an expensive brand that I recognise from the odd party I’ve attended. Sebastian is a real lover of champagne and spends ages poring over which bottles to buy to add to his collection in the garage. I’d like to say I agree with him, but to be honest, as long as it’s cold, wet and alcoholic, I’ll usually drink anything. I turn over a few pages, marveling at the size of the house, the elaborate decor, the size of the huge plasma televisions in every room, including the downstairs loo. The next few photographs show the basement floor, styled to include a gym, games room and wine cellar. I study the bottles with interest, drooling at the various bottles of wine that are stacked up against the wall. Having read what I have about Marina, I really wouldn’t be surprised to find a bottle of Lambrini in there somewhere.

I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn round. Serena is holding out a Styrofoam cup of hot chocolate.

“Peace offering?” she says as I take the cup from her hands “I’m sorry for being a grade A bitch. That was a really nice thing of you to do for me earlier.”

I take a sip and consider her words. She continues.

“I know it was my fault, I just can’t believe I was that stupid. I just couldn’t accept I’d f*cked up that badly. Please forgive me.”

I’m not a creature who enjoys confrontation outside of court and I cave in easily, my earlier anger forgotten.

“On one hand, I can’t deal with being at war with both you and Lucinda at the same time anyway.” I say, enjoying the creamy drink “But, if this was a serious apology then you’d have come up with more than just a hot beverage.”

She grins at me and produces a Twix from her handbag and hands it to me. I unwrap it and hand her a finger.

“You know me too me too well, but for the record, the next time you call me a bitch I’m going to phone up every single one of your wedding suppliers and cancel every order you’ve placed.”

She pales slightly.

“You wouldn’t!” she gasps.

“Hopefully, you’ll never need to find out.” I say, taking a mouthful of my chocolate. She mirrors me and we spend a happy minute chewing together. Our companionable silence is rudely broken by the arrival of Lucinda who looks at us with an expression of contempt.

“Healthy lunch I see ladies?” she says “No wonder you’ve both put on so much weight since Bar school if this is how you choose to dine”

“Oh piss off and get a job,” snarls Serena and I choke on my last mouthful of biscuit as I laugh at the look on Lucinda’s face. I’m still coughing and spluttering when Corr returns. He shoots me a disapproving look before taking his seat and turning his back to me, his posture perfect as always.

Miss Drew resumes her place in the witness box and with the help of Corr, picks up the story. The whole court listens, entranced by her dulcet Northern tones. We all know what is coming but yet with every step closer we get to her terrible discovery I’m sure everyone in the courtroom is still hoping for a happy ending. Sadly, none comes. Her voice is quiet yet steady.

“I was scrubbing at the Le Creuset when something caught my eye. I looked out of the window in front of me and saw something in the pool.”

“Did you know at the time what it was?” asks Corr, gently.

“No,” she replies, tears streaming down her face. “I just saw that it was black. I thought it was rubbish, you know a bin bag. It, she, was just floating on the top.”

“Was the back door locked when you went out?”

“Yes. I opened it and walked the short distance to the pool. As I got closer I realised that it was black fabric, not plastic so I grabbed the net we used to scoop off the leaves. She, she was really heavy, it took me a while before I could bring her to the shallow end and get her onto the side.”

“What was Mrs Hobbs wearing?”

“A long black winter coat over a pair of dark jeans and a black jumper.”

“What about on her feet?”

“Boots. I think they were black,” she says.

“Was that what you considered her usual attire?” he questions.

She gives a sorrowful laugh.

“No, far from it. Marina’s dress sense was usually a bit, well, out there”

Corr pauses.

“Members of the jury, could you please turn to the fourth tab in the first exhibit bundle please? This should begin at page 16.”

Everyone in court flips open the folder and finds the relevant page. I’m familiar with the photographs that greet the court; various cuttings from lifestyle magazines of Marina, showing her dressed in outfits that would give Jodie Marsh a run for her money. One cutting shows Marina on an outing to Tesco wearing a creation that would be better suited to Strictly Come Dancing, her face alight, clearly delighting in the press attention that her outlandish ensemble would surely generate.

A photograph from her 30th birthday shows her dancing on the table of a bar wearing a frontless, backless mini dress in lime green that clashes horribly with her orange skin. Her long blonde extensions completed the look. I remember when this picture was in the press at the time, Serena and I spent ages bitching about her. Looking at Marina’s happy, open face I now feel terribly guilty that I judged her based on her fashion choices.

“Is that the type of outfit that you would normally see your employer in?”

“Yes. Mrs Hobbs loved her clothes, she always said she dressed to make herself smile.”

God, now I feel even worse.

“So what happened next?” Corr asks.

“I started to scream when I realised it was Mrs Hobbs. I tried to wake her up, but it was too late. I could see that her face was all purple and bloated so I called the ambulance and they got there pretty much straight away.”

Miss Drew is sobbing now, the trauma of repeating her version for the third time in court is evident.

“Some clothes were missing from her wardrobe. Did you find them?”

“Yes, there were two suitcases outside by the bins. They were in there.”

“What about any newspapers from the previous day?”

“No, I normally used to put any papers out to be recycled, they get them delivered you see, but I couldn’t find the one from the day before.”

Corr smiles at her.

“Thank you. If you wait there, there’ll be some more questions for you.”

Corr takes his seat and Quinn stands up. He straightens his gown and launches into his cross-examination.

“Hello again Miss Drew. As you well know I’m just going to ask you a few questions on behalf of Mr. Hobbs.”

She nods, looking slightly wary.

“When you arrived at the house, you saw no signs that Mr. Hobbs had been there that morning did you? His car wasn’t there and you didn’t see his keys or mobile on the counter did you?”

“No, I didn’t” she agrees

“You didn’t see Mr. Hobbs at all that morning did you?”

“No. After the police arrived I was taken to the station.”

Quinn pauses. “When you got there, were there any messages on the home answer phone?”

“Yes. One was from Mr. Hobbs saying that he was staying over with a friend and not to expect him back.”

“The jury will hear that tape later on, but you agree that the message was of an affectionate nature?

“I suppose so, yes,” she answers.

“And there were some other messages weren’t there?”

“Yes, two. But I don’t know who they were from, they were all muffled”

The questioning continues and I type a note of what is being said. Quinn is delicately laying the foundation of their defence whilst attempting to maintain a jovial tone.

“You’ve already told us that when you arrived at the property, the front door was unlocked. That was unusual wasn’t it?”

“Yes, it was normally locked,” she agrees

“And to put it bluntly, a lot of rooms looked like a bomb site before you tidied up?”

“Yes, but that wasn’t out of the ordinary.”

“How so?” he queries.

“Neither Mr. or Mrs Hobbs were very, well, tidy. Marina used to rely on me to make the house look nice every morning.”

“Ah, I see,” says Quinn. “Is it possible though that morning the house was even more messy than normal?”

“I suppose so?”

“Because, apart from the broken bottle, lamps had been knocked over, cushions were on the floor, ashtrays spilt and so on?”

“Yes.”

“So it’s perfectly possible, isn’t it that someone came into the house and caused that mess during a struggle with Marina?”

My head shoots up, but before I can so much as blink, both Corr and the Judge have started to speak. Corr graciously sits down and stops talking.

“Miss Green, please do not answer that. Mr. Quinn, as you well know, that is not a question that this witness can answer. Please confine yourself to questions and not comments,” warns Mr. Justice Wynne.

Quinn flashes a wide smile to the court.

“Of course, so sorry My Lord. I have no further questions.”

Yeah, right. That was a deliberate attempt to try and make the jury second guess the evidence. Helen Green leaves the witness box and hurries out of the courtroom, clearly glad that her role in proceedings has finally ended.

The next witness is one of the police officers who attended the scene. He goes through the various photographs that were taken with the jury, showing them the different rooms of the property, pictures of the pool and the gardens.

From the raised eyebrows and quiet murmurs, it’s apparent that the sheer luxury and opulence of the mansion is having the desired affect. This really is like a morbid version of ‘Through the Keyhole.’

Quinn stands up unannounced and addresses the court. “My Lord, I have raised the question of a site visit with My Learned Friend. I think it court be of great benefit if the jury were to actually visit the scene, get a feel for the house in person.”

There is a visible ripple of excitement in the jury box.

“Mr. Corr?” asks the Judge with a hint of exasperation in his voice, “Is this something you think is appropriate?”

“No, My Lord, it has never been deemed necessary before.” He pauses as he recognises that the jury are looking at him like he has just deprived them of a great day out. With an audible sigh, he continues, “However, I am of course willing to undertake such an excursion should it assist the court.”

“Well Mr. Corr, Mr. Quinn, I won’t make any decision now, lets see how we get on”

Before the jury have a chance to register any disappointment at this, Corr has the most crucial exhibit in the case produced by the officer, the weapon used to beat Marina prior to her death. The courtroom falls silent as a large transparent plastic bag is produced by the officer who unsheathes a large silver trophy around two and half feet in length.

It is an unusual shape, the base resembling an upside down wine glass and the top a large silver beaker attached to the slim stem. On the top is a gold figure perched on a crown: a small man and his football. Even from here I can see the red stains of blood covering most of the object. The jury are all staring at it with looks of horror and fascination.

“Can you please tell the jury what this is officer?” leads Corr.

“This is the 2004 Player of the Year award,” replies the policeman.

“Is it engraved with a name?”

“Yes, it is Sir.”

“And what name is on it please?”

“Ryan Hobbs,” says the officer, after pausing for effect.

“What is the staining that we can see on the trophy?”

“That is blood, Sir.”

“Whose blood is it?”

“Mrs Hobbs’, Sir.”

The jury are clearly struggling with a desire to examine the trophy in detail with the pure revulsion in being in such close proximity to a murder weapon.

“Where was the trophy found?” Corr asks.

“By the bins outside, next to the packed suitcases.”

“Were you aware of where this trophy was normally kept in the house?”

“I understand it came from a trophy cabinet in the hall area of the house.”

“Is that the same one we can see in photograph 20?” says Corr, flicking expertly through the photograph bundle.

“Yes” replies the officer, looking at the picture of a huge gilt trophy cabinet with mirrored internal glass panels. There aren’t actually many trophies inside, more framed pictures of Hobbs in action. Very narcissistic if you ask me.

The jury are spared from seeing the photographs of Marina’s body after she was removed from the pool; I wish I could say the same. The remainder of the afternoon is spent with the Doctor who described the injuries sustained to Marina prior to her death. Aside from having a fractured skull, she was found to have two cracked ribs, a fractured eye socket and a split lip. Most of her body was badly bruised and to add insult to injury, she had lost three of her acrylic nail extensions.

Corr is asking questions of the medic.

“What was the cause of death?”

“Well we know that she sustained a significant head trauma: there was an injury to her head, caused by a blow with a large blunt object.”

Corr points to the trophy.

“Such as that?” he asks.

“Yes, the patterns of blood staining on the trophy indicate that was the object that was used.”

“Can you say how many times Mrs Hobbs was hit with that object?” Corr queries carefully.

“Not exactly, but it was definitely more than a few times, with significant force. We did initially think that the deceased passed away as a result of those blows but due to the presence of water in her lungs, we were forced to conclude that she did in fact drown after being struck.”

“Would this have been instantaneous?”

“I’m afraid not. She would have been conscious at the time she was thrown into the water, but incredibly weak. It seems that she was held under until she died.”

“Do you have the time of death?”

“Yes, about 5AM.”

“Can you put an age on the bruising?”

“Yes. They were caused around 4 hours prior to her body being discovered.”

“Were any forensic samples taken from underneath Mrs. Hobbs’ fingernails? If so, what did they show?”

The tension in the air is visible as the jury strain to hear the next answer.

“We found skin underneath her nails, the DNA profile of which was matched to the Defendant, Mr. Hobbs.”

I continue to type a note of what is being said, but glance at the jury to see how they are receiving this important evidence. It appears as though the full impact of this jigsaw piece is sinking in; Corr wants them to believe that it was her husband she was fending off. Quinn is quick on the counter attack when he gets to his feet.

“The skin underneath her fingernails, you can’t say how long that had been there for can you?”

“No, I cannot,” he agrees.

“And you accept that during the course of non-aggressive conduct, such skin could have been transferred?”

“What do you mean by non-aggressive conduct?” asks the Doctor, looking puzzled.

“Any number of things. Massage, back scratching, events in the throes of passion and so forth,” hazards Quinn.

“Well, yes,” concedes the Doctor.

Quinn gives a wolfish smile.

“Regarding the death. You think that Mrs. Hobbs was held down underneath the water?”

“I said it was a possibility, yes.”

“And to do that the aggressor would have to have got into the pool?”

“I suppose so, yes.”

“Thereby getting wet in the process?”

“Yes, I imagine so,” agrees the Doctor looking puzzled.

“Thank you!” says Quinn, sitting down.

“I think that is a good place to end for today” says the Judge, closing his notebook on top of his papers. “I’d like to start again in the morning at half past ten please. I remind you not to discuss this case with anyone else and pay little attention to the press reports please.”

The jury are taken away and we all get to our feet to respect the Judge’s exit. Quinn turns to Corr.

“Come on Georgie, you haven’t got a chance of getting this home. You line them up, I knock them down. Why not just throw the towel in and admit defeat?”

To his credit, Corr merely carries on arranging his papers before turning to me.

“Lauren, can you send me a copy of your note of today’s evidence as soon as possible.”

I try not to smile.

“Already done!” I say.

I used the court Wi-Fi to do it a moment ago. It’s a good job I wasn’t expecting any praise, as Corr merely nods at me before stalking out of the courtroom.

As I unplug my laptop from beneath the bench, a hand rests on my shoulder. I look up and see Rivers bending down over me. He’s smiling and his hair has fallen into his eyes beneath his wig. I straighten up and turn to face him, aware that he’s standing very close to me.

“Hey!” I say, “Interesting day wasn’t it? Mind you, you’ve heard all of this twice before so you must know what’s coming!”

“Too true,” he drawls, taking off his wig and running his hand through his thick dark hair. “But this trial already has promise to be more interesting than the others.” With this, he gives me a wink. Mortifyingly, I can feel my cheeks start to redden. God, how old am I? Fourteen? Before I have a chance to reply, he continues.

“Here, I just wanted to give you this.” He hands me a piece of paper on which there is some messy black scrawl. “My contact details,” he explains “Just in case you wanted to discuss the case, or something.”

“Thanks,” I fish into my bag and retrieve a business card from my purse. I flip it over, write my mobile number of the back and hand it to him. Lucinda helpfully chooses this moment to join us.

“I hope you’re not asking Andrew to help you Lauren,” she scolds. “He has enough to do without carrying you too.”

I give an exasperated sigh.

“Lucinda, I know that you didn’t exactly pay much attention today, but even you should have realised that we’re on opposite sides of this case.”

My words have clearly fallen on deaf ears as she is now fawning all over Rivers, stroking his hair and wittering on at him about her proposals for dinner.

“We have to try the new Thai place by the canal, it’s supposed to be amazing. I’m sure I can get reservations if I book now. I heard that the do the most fantastic cocktails.”

“Lucinda, no,” he interrupts. “I have to work.”

“But you’ve been working all day!” she whines, “When are we supposed to discuss important things, like the wedding?”

“See you tomorrow!” I laugh, turning to leave, glad that I’m not the one who has to put up with her on a daily basis.

Serena is still at the back of court. I watch her gathering her things and making her way over to where Quinn is stood talking to Hobbs and his lawyers. She hovers behind them for a few moments before clearing her throat.

“Mr. Quinn? Where do you want me to send my notes?”

“Ah yes!” he replies, “Sabrina! The thing is, I don’t really need them, as Rivers usually keeps a good version, but they’ll be interesting reading material for you, I’m sure.”

He turns his back on her and resumes his conversation. I can see expressions of fury and disbelief on her face. For a moment it looks as though she is going to try and speak to him again, but to my relief, she turns on her heel and storms out of the courtroom.

On one hand I can see why she would be upset, but on the other, she’s still getting paid and it is a great experience, so she really has nothing to complain about. I resign myself to having to listen to her bitch about this for the considerable future and follow her out.

Unusually, I’m home before Sebastian tonight as I arrive back at the house and find it in darkness. I’ve been listening to the news reports of the trial on the local radio station. It’s really odd to hear it all again, to see what the media have been making of it. My mum has already been on the phone to try and get the ‘inside story’ from me; apparently even my dad is impressed by my involvement in this case. I unlock the front door and pick up the days post. Amidst the usual bills is a heavy cream envelope. I tear it open greedily and am happy to find my ticket for the upcoming reunion inside. I’ve already booked a hotel for the night so I can really let my hair down. It’s being held in a hotel in Nottingham in about three weeks and Serena and I are travelling together. I’ve already found the most perfect dress. I really shouldn’t have bought it, but I saw it online at the weekend and couldn’t help myself. It’s a tight strapless satin pencil dress in emerald green with a really delicate black lace detail. It fits me perfectly and will look amazing with my black Louboutins. As I recall the price tag I wince slightly. I pray that Sebastian doesn’t ask me about it. On cue, the front door opens and I run down to say hello.

After dinner we’re curled up on the sofa. I’m highlighting portions of the evidence that we’ll need for tomorrow and Sebastian is watching a documentary about American conspiracy theories. I’m miles away reading about Hobbs when my phone vibrates. It’s a text message from a number I don’t recognise. I open the message and read it

“She was right, the cocktails are fantastic. I’ll have to take you.”

I don’t need to fish around in my handbag to find the crumpled piece of paper to know who it’s from. Sebastian turns to me.“ Anything important?” he asks.

“No, just work” I reply, deleting the message, turning off the phone and returning to my work.