Court Out

Chapter Nine





Monday whizzes round at a ridiculous speed. I’ve spent every waking hour analysing the Hobbs case. Sebastian has been super supportive, supplying me with endless cups of tea and rounds of hot buttered toast to keep my energy levels up and little books of multicoloured post-its to mark my various bundles. He was initially shocked when I told him what had happened during the Goodridge trial but soon began to look on the positive side of events.

“Lauren, imagine you’d just singlehandedly thrown a trial away. You’d be mortified and in denial that it was your fault, of course you’d try and convince yourself if wasn’t.”

I shook my head.

“You didn’t see her, she was so mad with me!”

He’d kissed me on the forehead and placed a pain au chocolate on top of some cases I’d printed off.

“Give her some time to cool off and she’ll say sorry. I’m sure of it. For now, concentrate on your work. You’ll see her during the trial anyway, so she’ll have to say something to you.”

I took a mouthful of the pastry and munched with a troubled expression on my face.

“But what if she doesn’t?” I’d mused, spraying crumbs on top of my neatly ordered papers.

I’ve been in Chambers since six AM today, making sure that everything is in order. I had a very short meeting with Corr last week when he waltzed in, barked a few requests at me and left. I’d been expecting a cozy chat where we could sit and discuss theories over a glass of wine or two, bouncing ideas off each other to ensure the prosecution not only went to plan, but ran seamlessly too.

Instead, it felt like a meeting with the head teacher following being caught copying off another student. He’d been curt to the point to rudeness, demanding to see all of my notes, checking that I was up to speed. When he left I felt as if I’d disappointed him somehow, all of the promise from his note disappearing in an instant.

I’ve dressed carefully today in a classic black suit: a closely tailored jacket and a neat pencil skirt with kick pleats near to the hem. My bands have been washed and starched within an inch of their life and my hair is shining in its tortoiseshell clip. I’ve put on my favourite pair of ‘court’ shoes, black leather round-toed Mary Janes from Kurt Geiger with a five-inch stiletto heel. I can’t really walk in them all that well, but hopefully I’ll be sat down most of the day.

I spend a while re-reading my notes and wait for the masses to come in to start work. It’s a little bit scary being in such a big building on your own when it’s not quite light outside. I’m full of apprehension and excitement. I’ve been able to go through the transcripts of the last two trials and have seen who said what. The more I read, the more I’m convinced that Hobbs is guilty. His version doesn’t seem to add up and from what I’ve seen of him on the television, he seems far too pleased with himself for someone who is currently on trial for murder.

I check my watch, eight fifteen. I’m going over the part of the evidence in the first trial where our expert collapsed during his evidence. Doctor Rudd was in the middle of explaining his interpretation of his findings of the postmortem when he just went to the floor. Understandably, it appears to have been quite dramatic, people rushing to his aide, paramedics treating him in the well of the court.

His unexpected illness caused the trial to be aborted. They never did figure out what caused it. Happily, he’s fit and well now and I’ll be meeting him later on this morning.

The door to our suite opens and I see Cassie make her way to a nearby computer. She looks about as stressed as I feel and is chewing on a piece of her poker-straight pale hair. I wander out and pull up a chair next to her.

“What’s up?”

She jumps in her seat.

“Gosh Lauren, you scared me! I thought I was the first one in!”

She clicks her mouse despondently. “I’m fine, I’m just getting stressed about being in court on my own. I need to do well; if I don’t get in here then I don’t know what I’m going to do!”

She turns to face me, panic in her eyes.

“Oh God, I shouldn’t be telling you this. I’m not trying to influence you or make you feel bad if you vote against me!”

To my horror, she begins to cry.

I run to my desk and grab a packet of tissues from my Mulberry. This isn’t easy in five-inch heels but I manage to get back to her without breaking anything. She mops up her tears and I try to offer some words of comfort.

“Everyone in your shoes feels like this now, I promise. It’s a horrible feeling to think that people are going to discuss you behind your back, but you’ll be fine. I’ve only ever seen people be turned away if they’ve done something truly terrible.”

This doesn’t seem to help as she starts crying again.

“Not that you have!” I hastily add, patting her on the shoulder. “Just keep at it. In a few weeks you’ll be wondering what you were worried about. You’ve got six months but when you are taken on, the champagne’s on you!”

She lifts her head and smiles. I hope she realises I’m not joking about the champagne.

“I’ll be fine, it’s just I keep thinking people are bitching about me behind my back, making lists of reasons not to take me on permanently.”

Welcome to my world I think. Whilst they probably are dissecting every aspect of Cassie’s personality, I try to look reassuring.

“For you, it’s the biggest thing in the world at the moment, but I’ll be amazed if anyone else has registered it to be honest. Tell you what, I’ll put the kettle on. Tea? Coffee? If you’re lucky there might be a stray Jaffa Cake lurking about somewhere in the kitchen.”

She nods and blows her nose. I walk to the kitchen, put the kettle on and rummage through the cupboards. Ah ha! There’s a packet of Jammie Dodgers that have gone unnoticed and have been left over from the last Chambers meeting.

I make the drinks and wedge the packet under my arm to carry back to Cassie. She’s perked up and is reading through what I assume to be her work for the day. We both sit in companionable silence, dunking biscuits and highlighting our respective briefs.

I’m miles away when Robert walks in with Serena close behind him. He ruffles my hair as he walks past and I hear Serena make a tutting noise. She addresses him loudly as they pass.

“It’s a total travesty. Roger said they won’t instruct me anymore. I’ve tried to explain but they just won’t listen.”

Whilst I internally reason that she could be talking about anything, I know that she is still blaming me over the loss of the trial last week. I’m so tempted to stand up now and tell her that if she’d have spent less time with her head up her arse she might’ve seen her mistake, but just about stop myself from doing so. I’ve got enough on my plate today without starting a fight in Chambers. Anyway, what sort of example would that set Cassie?

I look over at the younger girl to see that while she is still looking down at her brief, her eyes are no longer following the path of the text on it.

“I’m sure I can appeal it. I’ve already written a full note detailing what happened so when they read it, they’ll know who’s to blame,” Serena continues.

Although my back is to her, I can feel her eyes boring into the back of my head. Robert cuts her off with his usual flirtatious tones.

“Anyway, not long now until the big day! Sure you’re not getting cold feet? Anything I can help you with? How about a nice stress-busting massage?”

Serena giggles.

“Oh Robert, don’t joke as I might take you up on that. I’ve just ordered the most amazing fresh fruit arrangements for every table at the reception. They’re huge, like four feet tall. You’re going to be so impressed!”

“Well I always did want to interfere with your melons-”

Serena cuts him off with a playful slap and the pair walk towards the lower part of the suite. Serena hasn’t said a word to me. The phone next to the computer rings and Cassie rushes to answer it. She makes a few noises of assent before hanging up the receiver.

“Lauren, you’re needed downstairs. Roger wants a quick word before you go to court.”

“Thanks,” I say. “Best of luck with whatever you’re up to today.”

If this impromptu meeting is as a result of Serena making some form of complaint about me, I swear I will kill her with my bare hands. I go into my room and pack all of the items I need for court into a small suitcase: wig, gown, Archbold, notes, laptop and the now familiar lever-arch files. The case now probably weighs more than I do. I manage to drag it to the lift and make my way to the clerks room on the ground floor.

Without waiting for an invitation, I enter Roger’s domain and, working on the premise that attack is the best form of defence, launch in to my version.

“You know as well as I do that I did nothing wrong. Ask any QC, any senior, or God knows, any pupil what they would have done and they’ll tell you the same. I know you have a responsibility to try and resolve any internal issues, but I’m really not in the mood for this now Roger!”

“Good morning to you too, Miss”

His reply stops me in my tracks and I pause, confused. True to form, he has a lit cigarette in his mouth and he’s staring at me in amusement neither noticing or caring about the falling detritus that’s landing on his dark grey suit.

“Just called you down to wish you luck Miss. Big day and all.”

My mind attempts to process this information and fails miserably.

“You mean I’m not here because Serena’s put in a complaint against me?”

“Oh she has, yes, but my sources have told me what happened. It’ll go nowhere Miss. Typical schoolgirl error, she gets too big for her boots sometimes.”

I’m not sure whether to be relieved or embarrassed. I plump for the former.

“Ok then, well, thanks. I’m just going over to court to meet Corr now.”

“Don’t let the pressure get to you Miss. All or nothing this time,” he says softly.

“What do you mean?”

“Last chance to nail the bastard. All yours Miss.”

I nod, not really taking in his words. Whilst I know that this is the last trial there will be, surely the pressure and ultimate result has to lie with Corr? I say goodbye and back out of his office. As I’m leaving, Roger speaks again.

“Watch your back, Miss.”

I exit with a peculiar feeling in the bottom of my stomach and begin the walk to the court centre. For a man in flat shoes this journey would take about three minutes at most, but as I precariously pick my way through the cracks in the pavement and avoid stray pieces of discarded chewing gum I arrive about fifteen minutes after my encounter with Roger.

The first sign that something unusual is afoot at Farrington Crown Court today is the waiting crowd of men dressed mainly in black leather jackets wielding large cameras with huge lenses attached. Paparazzi.

There must be at least twenty of them gathered on the main steps to the building lying in wait to get a shot of Ryan Hobbs as he attends for his trial. There are also news crews set up with glamourous looking reporters getting ready to link into the morning breakfast shows.

As I make my way carefully up the steps, trying not to drop my suitcase in the process, I’m stopped by a bald man in a long black coat. In a deep accented voice he speaks.

“You anything to do with the Hobbs case?”

It’s strictly against the Code of Conduct for barristers to do anything that could bring the profession into disrepute and there are chapters of guidance regarding dealing with the press, none of which I’ve read in any great detail. I err on the side of caution by giving him a noncommittal shrug and continue my path into the building.

Security is extra tight this morning and I watch as the contents of my bag are unceremoniously dumped on to a nearby table and searched. I can see my property being rummaged through like goods at a car boot sale: there goes my bank statements, cheque book, packet of jelly babies, spare phone charger, Tampax, keys. This would be majorly humiliating if everyone didn’t have to undergo the same procedure.



There’s an odd silence that falls across the crowds as through the double doors comes three men all wearing sunglasses and pulling wheelie trolleys. They’re dressed immaculately in three-piece suits, devoid of any particle of fluff or stray hair that may have had the audacity to attach itself to their expensive garments.

I recognise Corr immediately. He’s in his mid sixties and is a couple of inches shorter than me. He’s lost most of his hair save for a couple of tufts above his ears and he’s wearing a pair of rectangular wire rimmed spectacles. He strides purposefully through the security arch and is allowed to progress without the need for a full cavity search. I try to follow him as he heads for the elevator but am prevented from doing so by virtue of the fact the security guard in charge of my bag is trying to establish if I could hurt anyone with my eyelash curlers.

“We had this last week!” I howl in frustration. “What do you think I’m going to do? Give someone a makeover?”

Interpreting my insolence as a guilty conscience, the security guard decides to start the search of my bag again.

Frustrated, I turn to check out the two men that Corr came in with. One is late fifties, about six feet tall with a thick head of pewter coloured hair. He has a deep tan and dark brown eyes which are darting about, inspecting members of the public as he passes through the security checks. As the top of his bag is opened by one of the security staff I see some familiar green lever arch folders. This must be Peter Quinn QC. Also based in London, he normally spends his time down there defending major gangland crooks. He has an impressive air of authority about him, but it seems like he’s permanently on edge, constantly watching who is around him.



I turn my attention to the second man behind him, who’s just removed his sunglasses and placed them into his pocket. My heart stops. He has the most piercing pair of bright blue eyes I’ve ever seen. His hair is jet black and swept off his face, although occasionally a tendril falls into his eyes. His cheekbones are high and pronounced and I’m sure that if he’s not a lawyer, he must be a model. He’s tall, about six feet with a slender build. He bends to retrieve his case and I try to look as if I’m not staring.

As Quinn walks past me, the man follows, his arm brushing mine. He turns briefly towards me and our eyes meet. I’m immediately caught in his gaze and blink to break the spell. He gives me a brief smile and leaves to catch up with Quinn.

What the hell was that? I mentally chastise myself, reminding myself about Sebastian. In the three years we’ve been together I’ve never so much looked at another man, let alone, well, looked at another man. I pull myself together and snatch my bag from the counter. With some considerable difficulty I drag my suitcase over to the lift and push the ‘up’ button. I tap my shoe on the tiled floor; annoyed to have been delayed to meet Corr. As the lift finally arrives, a familiar voice comes from behind me

“Oh my God, I saw those shoes too! I thought about buying them but decided they looked a bit trampy. Looks like I was right.”

Perfect, Lucinda. I have two options, I can either engage in our usual bitchy repartee or be grown up about things and ignore her. I go for broke and turn round.

“Didn’t you see the sign on the door Lucinda? No dogs allowed in court.”

“You’re like sooo hilarious Lauren. Obviously the lack of sleep is taking its toll on you; I could put my papers in the bags under your eyes.”

“Yeah well, one of the perks of being a barrister. You know, the end result of all those years of legal education. Oh no wait, I forgot, that didn’t quite work out for you did it?”

I load my bags into the lift and press the button for the second floor. Lucinda watches me with an annoyingly smug look on her face.

“I’m going to take the stairs. It’s called exercise.” She looks me up and down, “You’ve obviously never tried it.”

I could scream as the doors shut. I study my refection in the mirror lift. I know I’m far from obese but being taunted by a stick thin witch really does a number on your self-esteem first thing on a Monday. I take a few steadying breaths and try not to think about all of the biscuits I ate this morning.

As I make my way to our courtroom, I hope that Corr isn’t looking for me. The last thing I need is for him to blame any loss of focus on me. As I step inside, I’m taken aback at the sheer volume of papers heaped up on the rows of seats and the numerous books and boxes stacked up everywhere.

“Lauren, put the exhibit bundles next to my laptop and order the statements alphabetically over here.” Corr has spotted me and is now pointing at an empty spot on the bench.

So much for ‘hello.’ I hurry over and start emptying the contents of my suitcase onto an empty seat. Any ideas I’d had about attempting to make small talk with Corr are cut short when Quinn walks through the door.

“Georgie Boy!” he booms in a deep baritone, “This trial is like groundhog day eh?”

Corr merely glances up and gives him a brief nod. Undeterred, Quinn continues.

“Oh don’t be like that George, just think, after this you’ll never have to see me again! Ok, well not ever again, but it’ll at least be the back of Mr. Hobbs!”

The silence that follows is deafening. After at least a minute, Corr speaks quietly.

“I hope you have received the amended set of agreed facts and the proposed timetable for calling the witnesses. If there are any problems then have your junior liaise with Lauren.”

With this, Corr stalks out of the courtroom, leaving me sat amidst the folders on my own. There are two rows of benches in the well of the court. Typically, the first is reserved for barristers and the second for our instructing solicitors. In this trial however, I’ll be sitting next to my solicitor behind Corr. I look to my left and see Serena enter the court, making her way to the seat behind Quinn.

“And who are you dear girl?” he asks jovially.

“Serena Taylor,” she replied confidently. “I’m your noting junior.” She unzips her bag and places her laptop onto the bench behind him.

“Ah, sorry but not there, too many cooks and all.”

Serena looks somewhat bewildered. “Pardon me?” she asks.

“You’re to sit in the public gallery. We don’t want the jury thinking he’s got too many lawyers on his team. Makes him look guilty. On that subject, please take off your wig, gown and bands. Just act like a civilian and we’ll get on swimmingly.”

Whilst were not exactly on best terms at the moment, I feel a pang of anguish for her. I know how much she’s been looking forward to having what she considered a proper ‘role’ in the trial. She slowly removes the offending items and relocates to the worn seats reserved for members of the public. She looks like a child who’s just been told that Father Christmas is a work of fiction. I can’t help myself.

“There’s no power socket over there, if you want her to take a note on your laptop, then she’s better off here” I say, pointing to a row of seats to the side of the dock, at the back of the court.

“Fine, fine” he booms. “Just make sure you don’t get under my feet.”

As Serena relocates for the second time, Quinn turns his attention to me.

“And you, young lady, must be Lauren. Such a shame about poor Samantha.” Quinn smiles at me, then runs his gaze down by body to my heels then back up again. I try not to visibly shudder. “Yes, Rivers is going to enjoy this trial, what with you and Shauna over there,” he drawls, indicating to Serena, who is now safely established at the back of court.

“Speaking of my errant junior, I’d better see where he’s got to.”

He leaves and gives me a wink as he passes. Yuck.

After I’ve set up all of the papers for Corr I sit and wait, knowing there’s not quite enough time to grab a coffee before court starts. You could cut the tension between Serena and I with a knife. I debate whether to break the silence and decide against it; I’ve already been nice to her once this morning, it’s definitely her turn.

The door opens again and a man who must be ‘Rivers’ walks in. At this point I’m not in the least surprised to recognise him as the man with the amazing eyes from downstairs. He walks directly across to me, his gaze fixed firmly on my blushing face.

“Hi, I’m Andrew Rivers,” he says in a deep voice, holding out his hand for me to shake. His cuffs have risen and I can see his watch which looks suspiciously like the new Breitling.

“Lauren. Lauren Chase” I reply, trying to keep my voice steady.

To my dismay I realise that I’m standing just that little bit straighter than usual, my smile is a touch wider then normal and I’m holding his look for a nanosecond longer than I should. I turn away from him and begin to gather the papers Corr wants him to have.

As I make sure everything is in order, I spy a pair of familiar looking shoes approaching where we are stood. My shoes, in fact. I wondered where they had gotten to. Today they are attached to Serena’s feet as she strolls over to the pair of us.

“And I’m Serena. I’m your junior, so to speak,” she says in a throaty voice. I look up to see Andrew smile and take her hand.

“Delighted to meet you,” he says with tones that would put Hugh Grant to shame. I’m slightly nauseated to see that Serena is twisting her hair around her index finger and practically drooling.

“You’ll have to help me up to speed on the case,” she continues. “I know the basics, but I’d appreciate a more detailed outline from someone who really knows all of the intimate details.”

Was that my imagination or did she put an unnecessary emphasis on the word ‘intimate’? Whatever intonation she used, it seems to have captured Andrew’s attention. I turn to him.

“These are for you. They’re paginated to fit in with existing bundle.”

He flicks through them briefly.

“Thanks. I see I’ll have to keep an eye on you. Sam was never this organsied,” he says, touching my hand for slightly longer than strictly necessary as he takes them from me.

“If you give me your email address, I’ll send you a copy of my notes at the end of play each night,” Serena offers, practically elbowing me out if the way in her haste to draw attention back to herself.

“Thanks,” he replies.

The court doors open at exactly ten fifteen and Corr sweeps back in with Quinn in his wake. Corr looks even less impressed than normal and the cause becomes apparent as they come into earshot.

“Oh come on George, where’s the harm in inviting the jury to take a field trip to the scene of the murder?” Quinn teases, “They’d love a chance to nose round the Hobbs mansion, root through the wardrobes. It’d be like Come Dine With Me.”

The expression on Corr’s face is murderous. He ignores Quinn and turns to me. “I trust everything is in place to empanel the jury? I don’t need to remind you that everything needs to run exactly to schedule this time.”

I nod. I’ve decided to say as little as possible to him, as he definitely isn’t the chatty type. Quinn and Andrew are chatting happily to our left and I feel a slight pang that we don’t have that kind of working relationship. My feelings of self-pity are cut short as I notice another group walk into the courtroom.

Ryan Hobbs is shorter than I thought he would be. His head is remarkably square shaped with military short blonde hair. His build is more suggestive of a rugby player than a footballer. He also looks considerably older than his thirty-four years. Today he’s wearing an exquisitely cut Armani suit with a pale pink shirt and a striped tie. He’s unsurprisingly better looking in person that in his police mugshots. He glances round the courtroom, familiar with the process and parties after two previous encounters. He stops when he gets to me, noticing an unknown face amidst the sea of lawyers. I turn away, unwilling to engage in any sort of contact with him.

He is flanked by two representatives from his solicitors and a tall, thin female with short black hair. Oh damn it. I should have guessed. My head is spinning with snippets of information that I’ve subconsciously processed over the last few weeks. If Lucinda is here, in this trial, that means her fiancé must be too. Given the total lack of suitable men present in the courtroom, there is only one candidate.

My conclusion is confirmed as Lucinda runs over to Rivers, puts her arms around his neck and kisses his on his lips. He pulls away, looking thoroughly mortified at the public display of affection. Quinn gives a booming laugh and pats his junior heavily on the back.

“Lucinda! Darling! So good to see you again. How’s your father? Still printing his own money I imagine?”

She tosses her glossy mane.

“Oh you know Daddy, always busy.”

“Bet he needs to be to pay for the wedding of the decade!” says Quinn, nudging Rivers in the ribs. He blushes and diverts his gaze. “So, you’re on board for the whole of the trial then? So good of Rushton Palmer to let you come along to see some real court action. Your father was saying how you’d been struggling to find work before he stepped in.”

Ah ha! I knew it. In-house consultant my arse. She’s desperately trying to change the subject now, but it’s too late. I try to conceal a smirk, but Corr notices. If it wasn’t for the fact that he has no sense of humour whatsoever I’d swear that there’s a ghost of a smile on his face.

The court usher hurries to her desk and indicates that the Judge is ready to start. Gosh, I shouldn’t be so gauche, but this is exciting. We all make our way to our places and wait for his entrance.

I look across to see with some satisfaction that Lucinda has been relegated to the public gallery, now full of press and nosey onlookers. I give her a cheery wave, just before the court rises to its feet to greet the arrival of The Honourable Mr. Justice Wynne. The only indication that anyone other than Lucinda noticed my gesture comes from behind me, in the form of a loud snort from Serena.