Dead End

Twelve

B arry Jackson was a heavily built, blond-haired man with a deep, half-moon scar on his left cheek. He wore a sports shirt, jeans and a sports jacket and apologized as he entered the detention cell. ‘I was at home when I got the call.’

Reading the other man’s watch as the lawyer handed him his card, Parnell saw it was nearly midnight. Frowning down at the introduction, Parnell said: ‘Jackson?’

‘Beverley and I are still good friends. Just not good at being married – she never can bring herself to admit I’m always right. She thought you knew I was a lawyer – that that was why you called her.’

‘No,’ said Parnell. ‘Maybe it’s my first piece of luck.’

‘All I’ve got from the night sergeant are the charges. And I won’t be able to make a bail application until the morning. In between times, why don’t you tell me the story?’

His story was all that Parnell had thought about for so long it seemed forever, until his mind blocked and he didn’t feel he could think about it from any other direction. ‘You’re not going to believe it.’

‘You better hope I do.’

Parnell told it – hoped he told it – chronologically, from the moment Rebecca had picked him up from Washington Circle. And didn’t leave anything out, not even Rebecca’s admission of her pregnancy termination, his belief that the Metro DC officers had known in advance of the damage to his Toyota or the English-boy mockery on his manacled way to the station house.

‘This guy, Fletcher? He told you there’s forensic evidence that it was your car that hit Rebecca’s?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you?’

‘No!’

‘I can hear you well enough.’

‘No,’ repeated Parnell, more softly. He ached with exhaustion.

‘I find you’re lying, I relinquish the case, OK?’

‘I’m not lying. And OK.’

‘You make a formal statement?’

‘No.’

Jackson sighed, relieved. ‘You tell them about Rebecca’s abortion?’

‘No.’

There was another relieved sigh. ‘So, they don’t have an obvious motive.’

‘Who’s side are you on?’

‘Mine, Dick. And yours. But I don’t take on losers. That’s what I meant about lying. The two officers threatened you? You threaten them back?’

‘Yes.’

‘Shit!’

‘I told you what they were like – what they said.’

‘Maybe we can turn it. It’s not the major concern: I’m just worried about Rebecca’s car.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘You don’t have to. Beverley says I’ve got to do this pro bono.’

‘I didn’t ask for that!’

The lawyer sat looking at him, unspeaking. Realizing, Parnell said: ‘No! There’s nothing between Beverley and me! On my life!’

‘Your life’s not worth much at the moment but I’ll believe you about Beverley, for the moment. It takes away another motive, you caught between two women.’

‘I fired Fletcher because he’d already decided I was guilty – said that’s how I had to plead and that we had to try for mitigation.’

‘I haven’t decided that or talked about guilty pleas or mitigation. But if you want to fire me, go ahead. It’ll cost you three hundred bucks for the consultation. There was a Perry Mason rerun on television tonight. I didn’t want to miss it.’

‘I want you to believe I’m innocent!’

‘I want to believe it, too. But I’m already way ahead of you, wondering how many cans of how many worms I’m going to have to open up to prove it.’

‘Please help me,’ pleaded Parnell. ‘I’ve thought about it every which way. I know how it looks.’

‘You good for a personal bail bond?’

‘Depends how much it is.’

‘Perhaps we’ll need a bondsman. You’re a good enough risk, with the Dubette position.’

‘If I keep the Dubette position,’ said Parnell.

‘They fire you ahead of a formal verdict, I’ll strip their skin off, layer by layer, until they bleed to death.’

‘What about Beverley?’

Jackson smiled, for the first time. ‘You just impressed me! They go for her while I’m going at them, her compensation would match yours.’

‘ You just impressed me,’ said Parnell.

‘You don’t say anything to anyone about anything, OK? Just yes, please and thank you. The two officers are out of it now, until a court hearing. But no more threats against them. Or anyone else, no matter what they do or say.’

‘OK.’

‘Anything you want to ask me? Tell me?’

‘I don’t want this no win, no fee.’

‘Neither do I. So it isn’t.’

It was more of a collapse into exhaustion than sleep and Parnell was awake long before the same detention officer, yawning away the effect of his own rumpled night, came into the cell with the offer of a bristle-matted electric razor, corned-beef hash and coffee. Parnell refused everything except the coffee, which came in a much stained, unbreakable tin mug that retained so much heat it was uncomfortable to drink. There were four other officers in the shower-equipped washroom to which the warder escorted him, but Peter Bellamy wasn’t among them. They all regarded him contemptuously. Parnell, accustomed to communal sports-room bathing, stripped without embarrassment. One of the watching officers said something to the others when Parnell came out of the shower cubicle and on their way back to the holding cell the detention officer said: ‘They think you’re shit, for what you did.’

Obedient to the midnight instructions, Parnell said nothing. He estimated it to be another hour before the door opened again to the smirking Peter Bellamy, flanked by Helen Montgomery.

The woman said: ‘Hear you got yourself a hot-shot lawyer.’

Parnell didn’t reply.

‘Got Judge Wilson out of bed this morning to put the cars under court jurisdiction. Cranky son of a bitch, old Davey Wilson. Won’t like that one bit.’

Parnell guessed neither of the officers did, either.

‘You got nothing to say, English boy?’ said the woman.

‘Are we going to court?’ He’d expected Barry Jackson to come back to the police station.

‘Bet that sweet ass we are,’ said Bellamy. ‘Gonna have you tucked up nice and safe in a proper jail with a lot of new and loving friends by tonight.’

Parnell hesitated directly outside the cell door, half moving his hands to be manacled again, but Helen Montgomery said: ‘That smart lawyer of yours got an order against restraint.’

‘Which doesn’t prevent us from cuffing you, you do something we don’t like,’ warned Bellamy. ‘You be very, very careful, English boy.’

It was bravado, Parnell guessed. He didn’t think they were worried yet but there was an uncertainty. The impression remained as he walked between them out into the receiving hall, where three of the officers from the washroom were standing. The expressions were still contemptuous but there were no sniggering remarks. There weren’t on the short drive to the courthouse, either. The car stopped directly in front of the building but it wasn’t until he started to get out, the two deputies already posed, that Parnell saw the cameras, television as well as presumably newspaper photographers. There was a babble of questions, which Parnell ignored. He tried to hurry through the pack but felt Bellamy’s hand upon his arm, slowing him, although at the same time he heard the man demanding that they be let through, which they finally were.

Jackson was waiting outside their assigned court, in a subdued suit and muted tie. The lawyer said: ‘How you feeling?’

‘Like shit.’

‘That’s just how you look. Those photographs aren’t going to flatter you, either. You already got today’s headlines, in the Washington Post even. Lot of background about your scientific work. Let’s get out of here, somewhere quieter.’ Jackson led the way into an anteroom equipped with a table, chairs and a closed, glass-fronted cabinet of neatly ordered legal books. As he sat where Jackson indicated, Parnell said: ‘Gather you started early?’

‘Earlier than you’d believe,’ said Jackson. ‘Did Bellamy or Montgomery question you about the contents of Rebecca’s purse?’

‘No.’

‘What does AF209 mean to you?’

Parnell stared back uncomprehendingly at the lawyer. ‘Nothing.’

‘You sure?’

‘If I tell you it means nothing it means nothing.’

‘It’s a flight number. An Air France flight number.’

‘Of course,’ understood Parnell. ‘It just didn’t seem to fit.’ Or did it?

‘What were Rebecca’s political views?’

Parnell’s breath came out in a laugh. ‘We never discussed her political views. I don’t believe she had any, not seriously.’

‘What about you?’

‘What’s this got to do with Rebecca’s murder?’

‘It could have a lot to do with it. Answer the question.’ There was a hardness to the man’s questioning there hadn’t been before.

‘If you’re looking for an American near equivalent I guess it’s Democrat. But I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.’

‘You ever belonged to a radical political organization? At university, maybe, when everybody does.’

‘I wasn’t one of the everybodies.’

‘Does that mean you never belonged or subscribed in any way whatsoever to a radical political organization?’

‘That’s very precisely what it means,’ said Parnell. ‘You going to make it any easier for either of us, because at the moment I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.’

Jackson studied him across the table for several moments before saying: ‘I find you lied to me, I’ll throw you in the snake pit myself.’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’ said Parnell. ‘What’s the difference between a snake pit and the madhouse I’m in already?’

‘You might find out in a very short time,’ said Jackson. ‘Something else you should know is that getting the cars under the court’s jurisdiction gets them away from Metro DC police. I’m trying to fix independent forensic tests, as early as this afternoon if possible. Maybe, if you’re telling me the truth, it will be by someone more independent than we could hope for. Prosecution are going for a remand in custody, which I’m going to oppose, obviously. This is scheduled as an initial formality, a bail hearing… All that stuff in the papers about your professional career and integrity could help, as well as the rabbit I might have in my hat. And there might even be another edge.’

‘What?’ demanded Parnell.

The man hesitated. ‘Don’t want to build up false hopes.’ There was another pause. ‘We’ve got the preliminary autopsy report. Rebecca’s neck was broken and there were extensive crush injuries to the chest. And there was no finding of excessive alcohol.’

Parnell winced, coughing, at the listed injuries. ‘They said, the officers, she wasn’t wearing a seat belt. That can’t be. She always wore a seat belt.’

‘You told me last night,’ remembered Jackson. ‘She wasn’t in the car when she was found. She’d been thrown clear.’

‘What about crawling out… releasing herself and crawling out?’

The lawyer shook his head. ‘Not with those injuries.’

‘It’s not right,’ insisted Parnell. ‘Something’s definitely not right.’

‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,’ cautioned Jackson. ‘You’re the immediate priority. They got an argument for a custodial remand, hit and run, leaving the scene of a fatal accident. I’m going to have to call you. Now don’t get mad but I’m going to ask you one more time. Did you pursue Rebecca Lang into Rock Creek Park?’

‘No.’

‘Crash into her car and force her off the road?’

‘No.’

‘So how do you account for your car’s paint being on Rebecca’s vehicle?’

‘I can’t.’

‘You ever been in a court before? Under cross-examination?’

‘No.’

‘The prosecution is going to roll all over you,’ warned the lawyer. ‘They’ve already guaranteed the publicity. Headlines. It’s the sort of stuff they go for.’

‘You think it was the prosecution who got all the stuff in the papers?’

‘Yes. They think it’s a big case from which they’re going to emerge looking good.’

‘I guess it is,’ accepted Parnell.

‘No you don’t,’ contradicted Jackson. ‘You can’t guess what it’s like until it happens to you. Don’t lose your temper, no matter how much they try to make you. Don’t rush an answer until you’ve thought about it. Don’t volunteer anything you’re not asked. You think you can remember all that?’

‘I hope so.’

‘Don’t hope so. Know so. Baldwin and Fletcher are going to be in court, by the way.’

‘I said I didn’t want them! Fired Fletcher.’

‘They’re not representing you. After all today’s publicity, they applied for – and got – a watching brief on behalf of Dubette.’

‘How are Dubette involved?’

‘You work for them. Rebecca worked for them. It’s an obvious precaution for Dubette. For their reputation.’

‘Against what?’

‘Against whatever.’

Rebecca hadn’t been the only child-speaker, Parnell thought. ‘I don’t think I’ve properly understood things yet.’

‘I know you haven’t properly understood things yet. I don’t think I have, either. Until I do, we go with the flow. There’s something else you should understand. If there’s a conviction on any of what they’ve already charged you with or charge you with later – most certainly if there’s a prison term – it’s virtually inevitable your preferential work visa will be revoked. You’ll be deported, after serving whatever sentence is imposed.’

‘I’m frightened,’ blurted Parnell, wishing at once that he hadn’t spoken. He couldn’t remember ever admitting that before: not meaning it, as he meant it now. But then he’d never been caught up in such a nightmare before.

‘Do the best you can. And try to remember what I said about what to do and what not to do in court.’

‘I’ll…’ started Parnell, but quickly corrected himself. ‘I will. I promised I will.’

‘One more time,’ insisted Jackson. ‘A flight number, AF209, means nothing to you?’

‘Absolutely not! Why’s it so important?’

‘I wish to Christ I knew. Knew, too, whether I was doing the right thing.’

The prosecuting attorney, Vernon Hanson, was a man whose thinness at once reminded Parnell of Dwight Newton, although the prosecutor was dressed better to conceal it, the suit tailored and waistcoated, the spectacles rimless and minimal. He had, too, the demeanour of belonging, of being sure of himself in familiar surroundings. Baldwin and Fletcher were in the row behind. Both had yellow legal pads before them. Baldwin smiled and nodded. Fletcher remained expressionless. To their right the press gallery was crowded, several reporters overflowing on to the extra seats provided. Everyone stood, to the usher’s order, at the entry of the white-haired, jowl-wobbling Judge David Wilson, who pointedly remained standing for several moments, peering accusingly at Parnell over half-rimmed spectacles before taking his seat. At Jackson’s halting hand, Parnell remained standing with the lawyer, formally to be charged, after everyone else sat. It was Jackson, just as formally, who entered the not-guilty plea to each charge on Parnell’s behalf.

Hanson came up from his bench like a toy from a sprung box, his voice surprisingly resonant from such a slightly statured man. The charges were sample accusations, the prosecutor said at once. Others, more serious, might subsequently be proffered. The allegations were that the accused had knowingly pursued a terrified woman, with whom there had been an existing relationship, through a darkened park area at illegal speeds and forced her off the road into a 40' canyon, causing her death. There was already substantial and irrefutable forensic evidence of contact between the two vehicles. He was applying for Parnell to be remanded to a place of detention to enable the investigation to proceed and for further, possibly more serious, charges to be considered.

Peter Bellamy was the first officer to be called by the prosecution for formal evidence of arrest. Parnell was surprised by the close-to-verbatim accuracy of the man’s account of the encounter in Showcross’s office, curious what there could be for Jackson to contest when his lawyer was given the right to question.

‘When did you come into possession of Ms Lang’s purse?’ began Jackson.

‘At the station house,’ replied the officer.

‘Who had recovered it?’

‘I understood it to have been found in the car, by the engineers who raised it from the gorge in Rock Creek Park.’

‘Had it been opened, prior to being handed to you?’

‘There had been a preliminary examination. That’s how the Dubette ID had been discovered. It was closed again when it was given to us. The ID was inside.’

‘To whom was it given, exactly? Yourself? Or officer Montgomery?’

‘Officer Montgomery personally accepted it.’

‘What happened then…?’

‘Are we working towards something here, Mr Jackson?’ intruded the judge.

‘I very much believe that we are,’ assured Jackson.

‘I hope we reach it soon,’ said the raven-gowned man.

‘I am sure we will,’ said Jackson. To Bellamy he said: ‘You were about to tell the court the procedure for an item such as Ms Lang’s purse.’

‘Its contents were examined. Listed.’

‘Ah!’ exclaimed Jackson, as if it were an important revelation. ‘Could you read every item of that list to the court.’

‘I must protest…’ started Hanson, rising with hands outstretched.

‘You promised we would reach the point of this questioning very soon,’ came in the judge, supportively.

‘A promise I intend to keep,’ said Jackson. ‘The list, please, officer Bellamy.’

The man went through a litany of cosmetics, a pen, credit cards, the Dubette ID, a tampon, a First City Bank cheque book and cash card, $52.23 in cash and

finally a piece of paper upon which was written AF209.

‘What significance did you draw from that piece of paper, with AF209 written on it?’

‘I didn’t,’ said the man. ‘We haven’t begun a proper enquiry yet. It will probably be taken from us – go over to detectives.’

‘You and Officer Montgomery were the first people to list the contents of Ms Lang’s purse?’

‘Yes,’ confirmed the man.

‘Thank you,’ said the lawyer, plumping down beside Parnell.

‘Mr Jackson!’ demanded the judge, warningly.

‘May I approach the bench?’

‘If you hadn’t asked, I was going to demand it,’ said the judge.

It was a huddled unheard discussion between the judge, Jackson and Vernon Hanson, with several bursts of gesticulating from the prosecuting attorney. When they returned to the body of the court, Hanson said to the judge: ‘Upon your instruction, I will say nothing that indicates the content of our conversation but I wish that restraint to be recorded, as well as the possibility of a complaint to another body for lack of prior disclosure.’

‘This is a remand hearing, Mr Hanson,’ said the judge. ‘Prior disclosure is not a requirement, although I will concede there might have been a courtesy extended.’

Jackson was immediately upon his feet. ‘If I have offended the court – or the prosecution – then I apologize. I would also like that entered into the record.’

Helen Montgomery’s evidence of arrest was an echo of her partner’s, as was her account of their receiving Rebecca Lang’s handbag upon their return to the police building.

Jackson took her through that as meticulously as he had Peter Bellamy, towards the end insisting: ‘Who did what, in the listing of the contents? Who wrote the list, who extracted the items, one by one?’

The woman shifted, uncomfortably. ‘I think I took them out, Pete wrote them down.’

‘What’s AF209 mean to you?’

‘Nothing. A flight number, I guess.’

‘Which you would have pursued, to discover the significance?’

‘If the investigation were left to us, yes. But I don’t expect it will be, now that it’s a homicide.’

Not once was there any intervention from Hanson, who spent the questioning bent over a yellow legal pad, hurriedly writing.

The forensic scientist was a small, elderly, thinning-haired man who very positively stressed his professorship and whose hand shook as he took the oath to be sworn in as Jacob Meadows. The man, who needed constantly to clear his throat, testified to being shown two cars the previous afternoon in the police-department garage. He was also shown substantial paint debris collected from the scene of a fatal accident involving a 2003 registered blue Ford. Grey paint adhering to the Ford, and in places wedged into that extensively damaged bodywork, together with more that had been among the dislodged blue paint, unquestionably matched that of the grey Toyota he had been asked to examine and compare.

Jackson was quickly on his feet again. ‘Professor, where were the two vehicles when you examined them?’

‘I have already told you, in the police-department garage,’ replied the coughing man, testily.

‘And the separate paint debris?’

‘I don’t understand the question.’

‘Where did you find that?’

‘It was handed to me.’

‘By whom?’

‘One of the recovery engineers?’

‘In an evidence bag?’

‘Yes.’

‘So, you did not yourself examine the scene? Collect the samples?’

‘I collected those samples adhering to the Ford in the garage. And I saw how the preventative barrier had been damaged: there was blue paint residue there, where it mounted the barrier to go into the canyon. The Ford, in the garage, was also marked by paint from the barrier.’

‘But you yourself did not descend into the canyon, to carry out any investigation there?’

‘It’s a forty-foot drop. Recovery engineers had to be lowered by hoists. I understand the Ford was recovered by crane.’

‘You weren’t there for that recovery?’

‘No.’

‘And did not go down, on a hoist, into the canyon?’

‘I have already told you I did not.’

‘But you have carefully examined both cars in the garage?’

‘Yes.’

‘Tell me, professor, at the speed that these two vehicles are thought to have collided, causing the damage you’ve indicated, would you have expected a substantial amount of blue paint from Ms Lang’s car to have marked Mr Parnell’s grey Toyota?’

There was no immediate reply from Jacob Meadows, but there was shuffling in the court, particularly from the press bench. Finally the forensic scientist said, shortly: ‘Yes.’

‘Were there any such blue paint markings?’

‘My examination was provisional, for this hearing.’

‘Were there any blue paint markings?’ persisted Jackson.

The man took a notebook from his pocket, flicking through the pages with a shaking hand for several moments. ‘I haven’t recorded any.’

‘Is the direction of this questioning connected with our earlier discussion at the bench, Mr Jackson?’ intervened the judge.

‘Yes, your honour,’ confirmed the lawyer. To Meadows he said: ‘Were you shown the contents of the deceased’s handbag?’

‘No.’

‘Was there any discussion between you and officers at the police station about any handbag?’

‘No. My examination was cursory, for the benefit of this hearing.’

‘Cursory!’ seized Jackson. ‘You conducted a cursory examination, for the benefit of this hearing, the purpose of which is to decide whether or not Richard Parnell should be remanded in custody.’

‘I did what I was asked to do, at that stage.’

‘Asked to do by whom?’

‘I’m not sure I remember. Someone at the station.’

Neither Bellamy nor Helen Montgomery were smirking any more.

‘I’ve concluded this initial questioning of this witness,’ said Jackson. ‘I call Richard Parnell to the stand.’

Parnell felt a vague unreality as he walked across the well of the court, and he fought against it, nervously aware that the last thing he could afford was light-headedness or lack of concentration. He recited the oath to the usher’s dictation, glad his voice strengthened when he answered Jackson’s first question, that he fully understood what it meant to tell the truth. Despite knowing the questioning was necessary to establish a good character, Parnell regretted having to list his academic and scientific qualifications, background and acclaim to the journalists’ hurried scribbling, wondering if his arrest and arraignment would appear in British newspapers. He hoped it wouldn’t cause any embarrassment or harassment of English colleagues if it did. Or, he abruptly thought, his mother. He had to call her, just in case. Jackson took him, in just as much detail, through his employment by Dubette and even into a detailed explanation of pharmacogenomics. The media note-taking increased when Jackson led the questioning on to Parnell’s relationship with Rebecca Lang, generalizing at first before coming specifically to the Sunday at Chesapeake Bay and their return to the Washington Circle apartment. Parnell’s tension tightened when he began talking about the decision he and Rebecca had made, to live together, frightened that Jackson would introduce Rebecca’s admission of pregnancy, but the lawyer didn’t.

‘What was Rebecca Lang’s demeanour when she left your apartment to return to Bethesda?’

‘She was happy. We both were, about living together.’

‘You didn’t have an argument?’

‘Absolutely not.’

‘Fall out?’

‘Absolutely not.’

‘What did you do after Rebecca left your apartment?’

‘Sat around. Did some work I’d brought home with me. Went to bed.’

‘You didn’t call her?’

‘No.’

‘Why not? You’d just made a romantic commitment. A lot of people might have expected you to call to make sure she got home safely.’

‘I know. I just didn’t. I wish I had. I could have started a search, earlier. Maybe…’ Parnell swallowed, not finishing. He supposed Jackson was anticipating some of the questioning he had to expect from the prosecutor.

‘Now tell the court about the damage to your car,’ insisted Jackson.

‘It happened last Thursday. It had been all day in the Dubette car park. There was no damage when I left it there, just after seven in the morning. When I came out, around seven thirty, nine o’clock, someone had hit it.’

‘Describe the damage.’

‘A wing and door were badly dented. The bumper – the fender – was bent in.’

‘The paint was broken?’

‘Yes.’

‘Was there much paint around on the ground?’

‘I don’t remember there being any.’

‘What about paint from the car that hit you?’

‘No. I don’t remember there being any trace of that, either.’

‘Mr Hanson,’ stopped the judge, addressing the prosecutor. ‘Isn’t that something that the court might have found useful to have been told?’

‘As Professor Meadows has testified, his was a preliminary examination,’ said Hanson, not as quick to his feet as before.

‘Told the court under cross-examination,’ reminded the judge. ‘And used the word cursory, not preliminary. During a hearing to determine whether the accused is granted bail or remanded into custody, to decide which, the court wishes to know all facts available at the time of such consideration. Do you have witnesses, either available or who can be called, to help the court?’

Hanson turned questioningly to the two arresting officers. Bellamy shook his head. Turning back to the judge, Hanson said: ‘Not at this moment.’

‘Mr Jackson?’ invited the judge.

‘Mr Parnell,’ resumed his lawyer. ‘You’ve heard evidence of the contents of Rebecca’s handbag, including a piece of paper with AF209 written upon it. Have you any idea why that was there?’

‘Part of Rebecca’s job was to liaise with Dubette’s foreign subsidiaries and receive shipments from them, for analysis and testing at McLean. I can only assume it had something to do with that.’

‘Assume?’ picked out Jackson. ‘You and she did not discuss it on Sunday?’

‘No.’

‘You had no idea it was in her purse.’

‘None whatsoever.’

‘I have an application to make, which you might have already anticipated,’ Jackson told the judge. ‘But at this moment I have no further questions for my client.’

‘Mr Hanson?’ came the second invitation.

It was jack-in-the-box abruptness again but Parnell had already inferred what Jackson had referred to as an edge – guessing that a lot of other people in the court were at least suspecting an inference, as well – and the sting was taken out of the attack. But it was still an attack. Hanson took Parnell through every question that had been put to him by Jackson, repeating them, rewording them, hectoring for replies, but Parnell remained quite controlled, relaxed almost, telling himself he hadn’t really needed Jackson’s warnings, although at once conceding that that was probably overconfidence.

There was a palpable desperation in Hanson’s repetitive conclusion, culminating with: ‘You killed her, didn’t you?’

‘No.’

‘Chased her, in the dark?’

‘No.’

‘Rammed her off the road?’

‘Why should I have done that, to the woman I loved and decided I wanted to set up home with?’ It was not instinctive. It was a reaction that had been growing in Parnell’s mind throughout the rephrasing and repetition but the timing was devastating.

Hanson had been bent over his legal pad, intent on his listed, hopefully hammer-blow questions. He came up startled by a question in return, not a denying response. Hurriedly he said: ‘That’s what I’m asking you to tell me.’

‘As I have repeatedly tried to explain, there is nothing to tell,’ retorted Parnell. ‘Except to repeat, as many times as you have repeated yourself, that I did not chase by car, crash into, try to kill or successfully kill Rebecca Lang.’

‘Points and denials that I believe already to be well established, Mr Hanson,’ said the judge. ‘I think it’s time to get to submissions. I would like to hear yours.’

The confidence had gone from the prosecutor. He spoke coherently, prepared – prepared, clearly, before the courtroom reversals – but his argument lacked conviction or belief. He stressed the seriousness of the accusations and insisted even more serious charges were to follow, and demanded that the remand be in custody for the investigation to proceed to enable those additional charges to be formulated.

Barry Jackson’s rebuttal was as forceful as Vernon Hanson’s had been falteringly weak. The prosecution’s grounds for a remand in custody had not been proved by a failed, premature and inadequately conducted investigation upon which he might at some later stage invite the court’s comment. Richard Parnell was a man of unquestioned rectitude and integrity. He totally and utterly refuted all the current and any subsequent charges and was prepared to offer in his own recognisance whatever bail the court might demand. Parnell was further prepared to surrender his passport to the court and report daily to any police authority, although Jackson invited the judge to rule that that authority be other than the one involved in the ongoing investigation.

Throughout the submission, Hanson, the two officers and Professor Jacob Meadows sat stone-faced, not looking at anyone. The Dubette lawyers Peter Baldwin and Gerald Fletcher also remained expressionless.

‘I want counsel to approach the bench again,’ insisted the judge.

This time it was Jackson who did most of the gesticulating, but when they returned to their places Hanson said: ‘I would once more like my strongest objection to any bail application to be placed on record, in view of our discussions.’

Judge David Wilson said: ‘Let it be so recorded, but it is in view of that discussion and, at the moment unsubstantiated, observations of defence counsel Barry Jackson that I am minded to take an unusual course. I have concerns about several aspects of this custody application. I do not consider it is one upon which I can, or will, give an immediate decision from the bench, until matters raised by Mr Jackson have been resolved. I fully recognize, however, that this court is considering a person’s freedom or detention, albeit how brief of either. Mr Jackson, where is your client’s passport?’

Before his lawyer fully bent towards him, Parnell said: ‘The apartment,’ loud enough for the judge to hear.

‘So,’ nodded the black-robed man, without waiting for the relay. ‘I am putting the accused into the temporary custody of a court official and yourself, Mr Jackson, for the passport to be retrieved and returned here, at two o’clock today, to be placed in the custody of this court, should it be my decision to grant the bail application. During that adjournment I shall properly and fully consider both submissions made to me this morning, hope to get guidance upon the matter that has so far not been disclosed in open court, and rule accordingly. Until then…’

Everyone rose, to the usher’s order.

It was the same usher whom Wilson appointed their court escort, with the admonishment that any overheard conversation between Jackson and Parnell was wholly governed and protected by client confidentiality. Despite that instruction, Parnell waited for Jackson’s lead in the car taking the three of them to the apartment, the usher driving. Almost before they cleared the court precincts, Jackson said, ebulliently: ‘We got our breaks!’

Parnell said: ‘I still need to know what the hell that is! Or was! Or perhaps still is! This really is Perry Mason!’

‘I know,’ grinned Jackson. ‘Tomorrow’s headlines are going to be twice as big as today’s.’

‘Please?’ implored Parnell. He ached with the strain of the concentration with which he’d had to hold himself in court. ‘What in Christ’s name is the importance of AF209?’

‘I haven’t confirmed that yet,’ said Jackson. ‘Until I do, it remains a matter for the closed court.’

‘So, how come I got released like this?’

‘Professor Jacob Meadows,’ announced Jackson. ‘His expert evidence has been discredited on three appeals. One, two years ago, overturned a judgment of Judge Wilson. I couldn’t believe Hanson’s court list when I saw it this morning. That’s why I so easily got the court protection order with the cars. I just busked the questioning in court, believing even less that I’d get the admissions that I did from him.’

‘There’s still a lot I don’t understand, about what’s being claimed,’ protested Parnell.

‘Me, too,’ conceded Jackson, soberly now. ‘I didn’t know how right I was last night, about opening up cans of worms. There could be some we don’t want to see.’

The usher was lucky with a meter very close to Parnell’s apartment, outside of which there was already a waiting phalanx of cameramen. The usher said: ‘I suppose I’ve got to come in with you. This is a first for me as well.’

‘Come and get your moment of fame,’ said Jackson.

They endured the flashlights and strobes and Parnell was conscious of faces at windows, as there had been when he’d left the Dubette building. Inside the apartment, he went directly to the bureau and retrieved the passport. As he turned away, offering it to the usher, Jackson nodded towards the telephone and said: ‘Your light’s flashing. You’ve got a message.’

All three men stood looking down at the apparatus while the message rewound. Then a bright voice said: ‘This is the Acme Toyota garage, 9 a.m. Monday, responding to Ms Lang’s message of Saturday. Sorry we haven’t been able to get back to you sooner, Mr Parnell. You want to call us on 202-534-9928, we’ll fix a time either in DC or McLean to sort a repair estimate for your Toyota. Like we told Ms Lang, our estimates are free and we are the authorized Toyota repair shop in the DC area. Look forward to hearing from you.’

Jackson extracted the tape from the machine with a surgeon’s delicacy and said: ‘This has gone beyond luck. We’re now into I don’t know what…’ He looked Parnell up and down, disdainfully. ‘I’ve got calls to make. And while I’m doing that, you got time to clean yourself up and put on something you haven’t slept in. You got to start making yourself look good for the cameras, because there’s going to be a lot more of those around before the day’s out.’