Court Out

Chapter Fourteen





I’m having the most amazing night. I got home in good time to find Sebastian busying himself in the kitchen, whipping up an Italian feast for dinner. A bottle of decent white wine had been opened and a large, ice-cold glass was waiting for me on the side.

Sebastian swept me up in a huge hug and we spent ages lingering over our food, just talking about what was going on with each of us. As I forked up yummy mouthfuls of salmon linguine I felt wholly content, wrapped up in the warm bubble of his company. I told him all about the trial, about how pleased I was to have been trusted to chief a witness and how completely amazed I was that Corr thought I had done a good job. To his credit, Sebastian nodded in assent.

“Lauren, you always do this. You panic and get all stressed that you’re not up to the job, but you always kick ass!”

I laughed.

“You have to say that!”

“No, I don’t,” he replied, stealing a piece of garlic bread from the side of my plate. “You’re going to have to get over it, you’re a pretty good barrister!”

“Just pretty good?” I exclaim in mock horror.

“Yep, that’s all you’re getting from me so stop fishing.” He laughed.

“Ok, I’m putting my rod away now,” I grumbled, finishing the remains of my creamy pasta.

Sebastian disappeared from the room and returned with a totally calorific pudding: chocolate profiteroles with lashings of double cream.

“Oh my God. I can’t eat this!” I squealed, “I’m not going to be able to zip my dress up as it is!”

Somehow however, I managed to eat the whole bowl and practically scraped the pattern off the china in scooping up the last few crumbs.

Sebastian’s firm has just got the contract to design a new shopping centre so he kept bouncing ideas off me as to what I thought should be included. I thought I came up with some good ones, such as having special designated parking spaces for high heel wearers, but given the look of complete bemusement on his face when I suggested it I doubt he’ll forward it to his boss.

I swear, there are so many potential ways to make women spend more money when they go shopping, as in my opinion it all comes down to comfort. Why don’t they have special foot care stations, so when your feet are burning from the pain of walking around on the balls of your feet all day or you have a really nasty blister, you could go and sit in one of those huge massage chairs and have a lovely therapist attend to your tender bits and provide you with plasters and Party Feet? I’d totally go and I know that most of my friends would too.

They could even offer a mini pedicure service and sell flip-flops in case you had passed the point of no return and couldn’t face putting your heels back on. Ooh, they could even have a little bar area too and give you one of those miniature bottles of champagne with a straw in it.

Trust me, with pain-free feet and a glass of bubbly in them, most women would be more than happy to carry on shopping for an extra hour or so. It’s a no-brainer really. I wonder who I should write to, to suggest this. They couldn’t say no, it’s a total money maker all round!

I decided not to mention this idea to Sebastian, it’s not really his area and to be honest, I’m not sure he’d support a venture that means I get to shop for longer.

Sebastian’s sent me off to have a long, luxurious bubble bath and I’m listening to an audio book on my iPod as I relax in the hot soapy water. I know I should have been thinking of ways to try and diffuse the Serena-Rivers situation, but I just can’t work up the energy. She’s a grown woman and can take care of herself. And as for Rivers, maybe he was just drunker than he looked, or was just feeling the pressure of his upcoming wedding to Lucinda. I’ll buy Serena a Penguin tomorrow to try and smooth things over. God, I really shouldn’t be thinking about food now. I’m avoiding looking at my swollen tummy and I resolve to start a new diet tomorrow. I say this at least once a week, but today I mean it. No, really, I do.

When I wake on Friday morning ten minutes before my alarm is due to go off I’m in an excellent mood. I curl up against Sebastian and smile happily to myself, feeling all cosy and snug. Today should be an easy day; the prosecution case is finished, all there is left to do is to listen to Quinn’s speech and then hear the Judge sum the case up, reminding them of the law and evidence they have to consider. Nothing really for me to do at all.

If I was being really vigilant, I could take in some other work to do, but I think I deserve a day off. Hopefully, this weekend will be a light one too as although we won’t have anything to do in court on Monday when we’re waiting for a verdict, the clerks should just presume I’ll need to be with Corr and not give me anything else. Then, when the jury convict Hobbs, maybe Corr and I will go out for a celebratory drink. That’d be really fun, and totally well deserved.

I hope I’m not counting my chickens, but there is no way in a million years the jury could have bought any of his rubbish. I certainly didn’t, not that I’m biased or anything...

Just in case, when I later dress, I put on my ‘lucky suit’ a black knee length shift dress over a white shirt, with a short three quarter length sleeved jacket. I pull my hair back with a pearl clip and put some matching pearl studs into my ears. I decide to push the boat out and locate the black McQueen heels Sebastian bought me. I know that they’ll be absolute agony, but they do go really well with this outfit.

I grab my red Mulberry and check I have everything I need. I really, really must sort this bag out as it’s getting beyond a joke now. I can see I have pretty much everything aside from the kitchen sink inside and I have no idea where to start.

I experimentally pull out an old copy of Elle and my phone charger, and then decide that more drastic measures are needed. Taking a deep breath and saying a silent prayer, I turn the bag upside down and upend the entire contents onto the dining room table and within seconds the surface is covered by a random selection of bric a brac. It looks like a jumble sale.

I fish around in the pile and retrieve my purse, phone, keys and a selection of makeup that I’ll need to make me look human. Satisfied that I have the necessities I turn to leave. I hesitate and think about my departure. I can’t really leave all this here can I? Sebastian will have a fit if he sees this. Inspiration strikes and I run to the kitchen and grab a plastic carrier bag. I return to the mess and start grabbing handfuls and stuffing them into the bag. Half empty bottles of perfume, old cotton buds, dried up highlighters, numerous letters and all manner of personal effects find themselves unceremoniously dumped in an old Tesco bag which I hide under the table.

I silently resolve to sort it out properly when I get home. Or maybe tomorrow. My Mulberry feels about a stone lighter and I run to the door calling up to Sebastian to say goodbye.

“I’m off now!” I shout. “I’ll probably be a bit late back, but I’ll give you a call later!”

“Ok!” he replies, “Good luck! Love you!”

“Love you too!” I reply happily.



I robe up in one of the conference rooms at court, feeling the familiar swell of satisfaction when I put my wig on. I know it sounds daft but when I’m all rigged up in my court dress I feel a bit, well, untouchable. People look at you like you’re important; people respect you because of what you’re wearing.

The first time I got to wear all the kit was when I was called to the bar six years ago. Along with Serena, Lucinda and Holly, the rest of my peers went down to London so that the ceremony could be performed. It was a really elaborate ritual, like something from a Dan Brown novel and I had to process up the long aisle at Temple Church and bow to a load of very senior barristers and judges in a certain order. Come to think of it, they actually filmed part of the Davinci Code there!

When it ended, it meant I was officially a barrister and would be allowed to practice. That was such an amazing night, aside from Lucinda making a spectacular fool out of herself. I really think my dad was proud of me. He’s normally a man of few words but even he couldn’t help but be impressed by the high caliber company and the pomp and circumstance of the night.

I spoke to mum earlier in the week and apparently Dad’s been following the trial avidly on the news and according to an anonymous source (Mum’s friend Teresa from badminton) he’s even been telling some of his patients that I’m involved in a high-profile murder case!

I open a MAC compact and quickly check my reflection and for the millionth time marvel at the godsend that is concealer. I snap it shut and leave the room turning off the light as I go.



As I enter the now very familiar courtroom, I can sense an odd atmosphere amongst the parties. Quinn is stood next to Rivers and they are talking between themselves in animated tones. I presume Quinn must be gearing up for his speech.

I can’t see Corr anywhere, which is odd, but there are a number of police officers waiting next to the jury box. The court clerk is talking to the representative from the Crown prosecution Service and from the look on the former’s face, there appears to be some juicy gossip being shared. Lucinda is sat in the public gallery looking even worse than before. Her skin has a slightly grey tinge and from the look of her swollen, red eyes framed by dark circles, I’d say it’s a safe bet that she’s been crying.

The door that the Judge uses to enter and exit the room opens and Corr appears followed closely by Mr. Justice Wynne. I look at them, completely confused as to why Corr would have been in the Judge’s room with him. Corr returns to his seat without speaking to or looking at anyone and the Judge checks that all of the barristers are in court before addressing us in a low, solemn voice.

“We have a problem. If I could please ask all four counsel to join me in my room then the matter can be discussed. I’d also like a member of court staff present to take a note of our discussions.”

What on earth is going on? I wonder, looking around frantically for some clues as to what this ‘problem’ could be. Nothing is forthcoming so I tap Corr on the shoulder.

“What’s wrong?” I hiss as discretely as possible.

Without turning round he shakes his head and stands up, walking back towards the door behind the Judge’s chair. Silently, I follow him and in turn, Quinn and Rivers follow me. We walk along a narrow corridor with unflattering fluorescent lighting past the doors that lead into the other courtrooms. Finally we reach a door that is open and we all walk in to the Judge’s Chambers.

It’s quite a large room with a huge hand-carved wooden desk at one end with a regular conference table in front of it. The walls are dark red with various landscapes hung on them. There’s a small kitchen area with a kettle, mugs and packets of biscuits. I feel my stomach rumble slightly and hope that they get offered round.

The Judge invites us to take a seat at this table and he takes his place behind the older desk. I sit next to Corr opposite Quinn and Rivers and wait expectantly.

“There has been an allegation that someone has attempted to bribe one of the jurors,” says Mr. Justice Wynne with a sigh.

What! My eyebrows shoot up into my hairline. This is a major scandal. I can’t believe that Hobbs has tried to buy his freedom! Talk about the last refuge of the damned. Wow, the shit is really going to hit the fan now. Jury bribing is a really serious offence, so either way, he’s off to prison for a really long time now!

“What exactly has happened?” asks Quinn in a grave voice.

“A juror was stopped in the street and told to ensure a particular verdict. A cheque for five thousand pounds was handed over,” replies the Judge solemnly. “I was made aware of this last night when the juror raised the matter with one of the court staff.”

“F*cking hell!” exclaims Quinn before quickly adding, “Sorry Judge, I just wasn’t expecting that! Do you have any idea who’s responsible?”

The Judge lets out a deep sigh. “Yes. The cheque has been recovered and the police have recovered CCTV of the alleged meeting.”

I’m totally speechless. Things like this are really rare because everyone knows that if you get caught trying to do something like this then the consequences are often a million times worse than the case in the first place.

“The police are waiting outside to detain the suspect and interview them about their involvement. I have no choice but to discharge the jury as I understand the juror spoke about this with some others in his number; further I cannot be sure that other jurors have not been contaminated in the same way.”

What? What! No! This means he’s gotten away with it. He knows we can’t try him again for the murder. I can only take comfort in the fact that we can nail him for this stunt.

Rivers interrupts my thoughts.

“Sorry Judge, did you say that the police were waiting outside? As in outside the courtroom?”

Mr. Justice Wynne bows his head.

“No. Not outside the courtroom. Outside the door to this room. Perhaps it’s best if they come in now.”

I sit motionless with shock. What on earth has been going on? This really is like something off the television. Surely neither Quinn or Rivers could have been involved. Maybe they just want to ask us all some questions about the trial.

The door opens and two of the uniformed officers that were in court earlier enter. They both look pretty similar: mid-forties, dark hair, not bad looking actually. The only real difference between them is that one has glasses and a few days worth of stubble. As they walk towards the table, I notice they’re both staring at me.

“Lauren Chase?” asks the scruffier looking one. I nod. “Lauren Chase, I’m arresting you on suspicion of conspiracy to pervert the course of justice. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

I think I’m going to black out.

“What?” I croak.

“You’ll have to come with us now,” says the other officer.

I’m barely able to feel my legs but somehow, push myself to my feet. I’m visibly shaking all over and I can’t make my brain connect to my mouth to try and either explain or understand what is happening.

“But, me? What, I haven’t done anything! No idea...” I trail off. I try to breathe and start again. “You think I did this? You think it was me? Why would I, why would you?”

“I’m sorry Miss, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave now. Please don’t make me use my handcuffs.”

I can’t see which of the officers has just spoken as tears are running down my face. I can’t breathe and I’m beginning to hyperventilate. I feel a hand on my arm and I’m guided back out of the room towards the door. I see a shadow in front of me and the person moving me stops. A low voice speaks and I instantly recognise it as Corr’s.

“I’ll only ask you once. Did you do this?”

“No.” I whisper back, before I’m thrust forwards and lead back into the maze of corridors.

It feels like time is standing still and I know that I’ll have to wake up in a minute. This has to be a really bad dream, it must have been the garlic bread last night! I pinch the inside of my elbow really hard with my nails and feel absolutely nothing. For a split second I could faint with relief until I hear a loud, male voice exclaim in pain.

“F*ck! She pinched me!” The procession stops and I’m pushed against the wall.

“We gave you the benefit of the doubt,” says one of the officers and turns me round so my face is pressed against the wallpaper. My hands are both twisted painfully behind my back and I feel a cold pressure on my wrists followed by a clicking noise. I’m pulled back into the corridor and forced forwards from behind. My eyes are stinging and there is no way I can rub them now. I blink frantically and try to speak.

“I was trying to pinch myself!” I sob, “I thought this was a nightmare.” Both men ignore me and we continue down the corridor. We stop at a plain door and the first officer opens it. To my absolute horror, I realise with a start that they’ve taken me back into our courtroom. My eyes focus through the tears and I can make out the people in front of me. There’s Serena, her mouth a perfect ‘O’ shape, Lucinda is gawping at me from the public gallery, the court staff are all watching me too.

The public gallery is full and the silence is deafening as they watch my movements. I’m taken out of the front exit of the court building too and the press have an absolute field day when they see a fully robed barrister being escorted away in handcuffs. They all start shouting as soon as we get near them.

“Miss Chase, what’s happening?”

“Officers why is she being arrested?”

“What’s she done?”

For a God awful moment I think the police are going to stop and tell them but they walk me down the steps and bundle me into the back of a waiting police car.

“Where, where are we going?” I ask.

After a pause, the officer next to me speaks.

“Carlode Lane. It’s only around the corner.”

My stomach sinks even further. I’m actually going to a police station. This isn’t some crazy joke. Jeremy Beadle isn’t going to appear from beyond the grave and tell me that I’m actually on ‘You’ve been framed.’ They’re going to put me in a cell. Oh God. Oh God! I start to cry uncontrollably and lean forwards in my seat. A hand forces me back up and I continue to sob.

We get to Carlode Lane police station after what seems like an eternity although I know it can’t have been more than a few moments because it’s only practically over the road from the court. The only thing I can draw comfort from at the moment is at least they didn’t make me walk.

We arrive in a large grey room with a formal desk at one end and lots of benches round the side. From the amount of CCTV footage I’ve seen of this room and ones like it, I know this is the custody desk where I’ll be booked in. I’m taken over to the desk and after a short, hushed conversation with one of the male officers, a very stern woman starts firing questions at me about my name, height, weight, medical ailments and whether or not I take any sort of drugs. I answer, completely dazed by the whole situation. I really think I’m going to faint.

I’m then taken to a small brightly lit room and they take my fingerprints using black ink. I stare at my neatly manicured nails in horror and start to cry again. To add insult to injury, I’m forced to take off my shoes and hand them over along with my handbag.

I’m walked to a small cell with pale blue walls, a single bed with a blanket on it and a toilet. The door shuts and I’m left alone to try and contemplate this hideous reality. I take a seat on the edge of the bed and shudder when I realise how far from clean this cell is. I draw my knees up to my chest and lean back against the cold wall, my black gown pulled tightly around me. My wig is lying on the bed next to me but I can’t bring myself to look at it.

What the hell is going on? I try desperately to focus my mind. What was it the Judge said? Something about a cheque for £5000 and some CCTV. I haven’t got five grand! I think I’m about £5000 overdrawn if anything!

Ok, this is getting me nowhere. Obviously I know I haven’t tried to bribe a juror so if I’m not guilty then this whole thing has to be a mistake. Someone, somewhere has obviously mixed me up with someone else. My breathing becomes a little easier and some of the fog inside my head clears. They’ll realise soon that they’ve messed up and I’ll be allowed to go. Then, they can get on with arresting the real culprit. I’ll demand a full apology, I might even sue them for the pain, suffering and humiliation I’ve been put through! I’ll sell my story to the paper and make sure that everyone knows I was wrongfully arrested. Perhaps then I could even do some pro bono work defending lawyers falsely accused of crimes. I’ll became famous for being a brilliant advocate who fights for justice, maybe I’ll even take silk off the back of it!

As I’m contemplating this, the hatch in the back of the cell door opens and I can see a man in the gap.

“You have the right to free and independent legal advice,” he drones, sounding like he’s reading from a script. “Please indicate which solicitor you would like if you have a preference, or if you have none, the duty solicitor can be appointed to your case.”

“What?” I ask dumbly. He glares at me.

“You have the right to free and independent legal advice-”

“No, I understood what you said, I don’t know why you think I’d need legal advice.”

He looks at me and his eyes narrow maliciously.

“Oh yes, we all know you think you’re some hotshot barrister. You should know the law already then.”

“That’s not what I mean!” I exclaim. “Haven’t you come to tell me I can go home?”

He laughs and it’s a rather unpleasant sound.

“Let you go home? Now why would we do that? We’re just waiting for our CID man to come back in to interview you.”

The blood rushes to my head and I quickly run to the toilet and vomit. As I retch I can hear the officer laughing and I start to cry again.

“I’ll take it then that you want the duty solicitor?”

I sit back on my heels and push my hair away from my face. My throat is burning and the smell of the toilet is making me feel worse.

“No.” I say, coughing slightly. “No, I don’t want a solicitor.”

The hatch is slammed shut and I kneel on the cold dirty floor in shock. They’re going to interview me. I’m being treated like a criminal. They really think I did do this. I make my way back to the bed and lie on my side, drawing my knees up until I’m in the foetal position. I’m shaking with cold and fear, so I pull the scratchy blanket over me. It smells musty and I dread to think how many other people have used it.

I lie there for what seems like an eternity until the hatch and then the cell door is opened. The same officer from before directs me to through the custody block and to an interview room where I sit behind a table that has a tape recorder on it. I’m familiar with police interviews as I read through countless of them on a weekly basis. I know that the police are going to ask me questions about whatever it is I’m supposed to have done and this is my only chance to give them my version of events; if I come up with anything different later then people will assume I’ve used the time to make something up to try and defeat the evidence.

I drum my nails on the table and try not to look at the mean police officer that is waiting by the door. After about a minute the door opens and a smartly dressed black man comes in with the scruffy looking officer from the court. He nods at the constable who brought me in and he leaves. The black man presses ‘record’ on the tape machine and sits opposite me.



“My name is Detective Inspector 6635 Connelly. Also present is PC 2212 Matthews. The time is 12:04 and this commences the interview of Lauren Chase. Miss Chase, I understand you do not wish to be legally represented, is that correct?”

“Yes,” I reply.

“Is there any particular reason for that?” he asks.

“No,” I say, although there are actually a number of reasons for this. Firstly, I cannot imagine anything worse than having to call a solicitor to represent me. It would probably kill what’s left of my career. Secondly, I think I can probably get by on my own legal knowledge and thirdly, I haven’t done anything wrong, so I can’t really give the wrong answers. Can I?

“Well if at any time you change your mind please tell us. The interview will be stopped until you have appropriate representation.”

He repeats the words of the police caution to me and I try to stay focused. It dawns on me that if there is no evidence, then I don’t need to say anything, I can just go ‘no comment’. Surely that’ll be easier than being interrogated? I tune in to what he is saying.

“...benefit of the tape I’m producing exhibit WC/3”

He places a transparent bag in front of me. In it is a rectangular piece of paper.

“Do you recognise this Miss Chase?”

“No?” I say before I can stop myself. As I look closer, I’m gripped by a paralysing feeling of terror. I pick it up and scrutinise it feeling the waves of nausea return.

“What is that Miss Chase?” asks Connelly.

“It’s, it’s a cheque.” I reply stupidly.

“And what does it say on the cheque?” he prompts.

I pick up the bag and stare at the cheque. I instantly recognise the familiar sort code and account number and the full name printed in block capitals across the bottom. It’s unmistakably one of mine. In blue ink, someone has addressed the cheque to a man called Stephen Walker in the amount of five thousand pounds.

“It’s a cheque for five thousand pounds.” I croak.

“From whom?” he persists.

“It’s my cheque, but I didn’t write it!” I stammer.

“Take a look at the signature please,” he directs in a sharp voice.

I do and nearly black out when I register the loopy blue letters scribed neatly underneath the amount box.

“Whose signature is that?” he asks, knowing the answer.

“It’s, it’s mine,” I cry, “But I didn’t sign this!”

“So Miss Chase, we have your cheque with your signature on it do we not?”

“Where did you get this?” I ask desperately.

“Mr. Walker is one of the jurors on the Hobbs trial. After he complained to one of the ushers last night, they called the police this morning and he has repeated to us that you had tried to bribe him into returning a guilty verdict. You gave him this cheque.”

“I did no such thing!”

“What was it Lauren, were you that desperate to make sure you won? Wanted the glory of winning your first murder?” chips in PC Matthews.

“No!” I sob, “I would never try to do that. I don’t even know who he is!”

“Never seen or met him then?” asks Connelly softly.

“No! This is a huge mistake. I don’t know anything about this cheque!” I protest, knowing that neither officer believes what I’m trying to tell them.

Matthews smiles nastily at me.

“Why don’t you take a look at the monitor then?”

I pause, confused and turn to my left where a television has been set up. Matthews picks up a remote from underneath it and presses a few buttons. We sit in silence for a moment before the screen bursts into life. It’s grainy at first and I try to make sense of the blurry images on the screen.

In an instant it snaps into focus and I recognise the street by the car park before anything else. I watch with an increasing sense of horror as a portion of a familiar scene plays out before my eyes. The camera pans round and I see myself handing an envelope to a man in a flat cap. My lips are moving and the man nods. I’m walking away and the man turns to look at me.

“That,” says Connelly, “Is Mr. Walker.”

“And that is when you gave him this cheque,” adds Matthews, somewhat unnecessarily with a sickening note of triumph in his tone.