Shed Productions made the original Bad Girl element of the characters, wrote the stories, and have full copyright to them. We are using these characters simply for non-profit, entertainment value. Likewise I am giving credits to G F Newman who wrote the Judge John Deed copyrighted characters and storylines via BBC Productions in this cross over fiction.
I wish to give credits to Norfolkpoodle and her barrister brother for her invaluable assistance in constructing the legal background. I would likewise give credits to the Bad Girl Annex Site for help with chronology from their 'Timelines' piece –also to William Shakespeare for the loan of lines from 'The Merchant of Venice.'.
I am happy to accept
comment, but am not looking for any criticism (negative or positive)
either publicly or privately--only general encouragement
Scene One
The atmosphere within the hallowed walls of the Lord Chancellor's Department was always cool and restrained. After all, it was built of ancient stone to reflect the true majesty of law and only the select few could pass by the doorman. The lucky few could stroll down wide corridors and high ceilings and past ancient portraits of past judges of renown, which were hung on the walls in gilt frames. Everything about the establishment spoke of an elevated and refined consciousness, of continuity back through the ages. Outside the building, Sky dishes may sprout in all their modern vulgarity and increased numbers of motorized vehicles create their cacophonous noise across the land but the catacombs of the Lord Chancellor's Department keeps them removed. The only significant changes that had taken place in the department were the introduction of computers where needed and the odd portable television that was hidden away in a corner.
For all that veneer of ancient civilization, the department was very well attuned to the demands of the state. It had developed the art to a fine degree in allowing the judiciary the belief that they were free thinking citizens while at the same time, they had that sixth sense in terms of where their public duty lay. Somehow, the findings of the judges managed not to rock the boat. It was not unassisted by the fact that they had all gone to the same schools and universities, cheek by jowl with future politicians and captains of industry. To say that strings were pulled would be far too crude – it was just that they had an automatic instinct for the greater good of the country. Behind the self-deprecating manner, those who had their hands on the machinery of government had a steely grasp of power and were determined just where to draw the line. They could also draw on the network of who's who in order to head off trouble.
.
The problem was that in modern times, there was a steady decline of deference towards the natural betters and an awkward tendency for troublemakers to ask awkward questions that were better left unasked. The trouble with liberal thought was that, inevitably, some high-minded people took it seriously, not just as a plaything of Hampstead intellectuals. That spirit turned up in the most unexpected of places and it was this that kept the establishment jumpy when all it asked for was that they should continue to steer the Ship of State in their own time honoured way.
Two custodians of the ancient order were now conferring in a comfortably appointed office. The taller man was slightly built, smartly dressed with a veneer of a patrician manner. He viewed the world through suspicious eyes but secretly regretted that he hadn't the strength of personality that he wanted. In his effort to come over as dominating, he suspected that he only appeared as petulant. His position gave him no problems in exercising his authority on those below him. They knew just how revengeful the man could be. It was those over whom he held no sanctions that spelled potential trouble such as the judiciary and barristers. While they could be an argumentative, hopelessly individualistic lot, he was able to get along with them with a certain discreet charm while he tolerated their idiosyncrasies. At least, this applied to the majority of them….
"So how do you consider the Wade appeal will go," a very tense Sir Ian asked of his sidekick, Lawrence James.
"Huntley is a safe pair of hands. He can be relied upon to do what is necessary for the greater good. Besides, Frobisher is our man who is conducting the prosecution. He is very confident of the outcome."
His colleague was of Jamaican descent who had successfully erased every trace of his origins except for the colour of his skin. In his enthusiasm to be assimilated into the grateful, outstretched arms of the British ruling class, his zealousness was noteworthy along with the fact that his suit was just that bit shinier and more immaculate than Sir Ian's. He spoke in a deep harsh tone of voice as befitting the circuit administrator with total power over the destinies of the functionaries of his court staff.
"And what about Ms Chambers who is conducting the defence? A loose cannon if ever there is one like our own Mrs. Mills. " Sir Ian demanded snappishly, with the deliberate emphasis of an angry bee on the title.
"My source of information is that the original verdict is sound. The original statement to the police is utterly damning."
"Maybe."
The silence that hung heavy on the room wasn't a comfortable one despite all the positive sentiments expressed. Each of them had that sneaking suspicion that Marian Chambers had something up her sleeve. The fact that the notorious lesbian cop killer had engaged the services of a young female solicitor who must have some eye to her future career and, still more, engaged the services of that particular barrister, made them feel that not everything was as it should be. For all their imperious dominance of the legal system, they both had the feeling that the future was threatening to slip out of their hands. For control freaks like them, this was a primal fear.
"It could have been worse, Sir Ian. The case has been kept out of the hands of Deed. Imagine what mischief he could make."
Sir Ian shuddered. That man was the biggest thorn in his flesh and occasionally came into view into his nightmares. Despite his humble beginnings, he had had chance of the best of educations and yet he had become a complete maverick. He was a crusading liberal whom a mischievous fate must have played a practical joke on the Lord Chancellor's Department in bestowing on him his exceptional talents. John Deed had an enquiring mind and an ability to nose out the truth. He had that knack of producing startlingly original judgments, as if he were producing a rabbit out of a hat. He had made his name as a brilliant barrister and, in these meritocratic modern times, his abilities could not be denied by the establishment so that his recent promotion as a High Court judge had some merit. What the establishment could not forgive was that, as soon as he achieved this elevation, he used his position to hand down judgments that were at best, idiosyncratic and at worst, verging on treasonable. The worst thing about it was that very few of his cases had been overturned at the Court of Appeal. It seemed that the devil looked after his own.
"…….and Mrs. Mills as defence barrister."
"Enough," snapped Sir Ian." It is quite bad enough that we have to contend with Ms Chambers' busy bodying ways without wishing real ill fortune on ourselves. To dwell on it tempts face. We can but hope."
Sir Ian sat back in his chair and closed his eyes. Before him was that image of Deed looking at him with that knack of thinly veiled contempt and rebuffing every attempt to bring him into line. If he threatened Deed, the man just laughed in his face. If he attempted to appeal to his sense of reason, the man impudently spun the conversation off in an unexpected direction. The worst of it was that he had exacted exemplary damages in a couple of cases against wealth creators whose friendship was immensely valued by the government. The man never had that sense of discretion, but on the other hand, seemed to positively revel in his recklessness.
.
At that precise moment that Nikki Wade was transported in the large shiny black prison car, nervously contemplating taking her stand in court. The streets of London whizzed past her in a blur. All she could focus her mind on was that Claire Walker was at the other end of the journey, no matter how frightening the vast bulk of the Old Bailey was. She just had to be strong in herself. She had to blot out of her mind that lowering presence of that evil bastard Fenner at her side, to pretend that he didn't exist. She clung to the crumb of satisfaction that she'd always faced him out and, who knows, would be rid of him. She was not to know that the establishment was no more certain of their chances than she was of hers. In particular, all the hard slog that Helen had exerted over the past months had secretly made Sir Ian and Lawrence James nervous and unsure of themselves, as it wasn't supposed to happen that the case got as far as an appeal. Something had gone wrong somewhere. The implacable wall of the establishment was not as rock solid as it appeared to be.
Neil Haughton, the smooth upwardly mobile newly appointed Home Secretary whose most passionate speeches were always on sale to the highest bidder, casually drifted by to talk to Sir Ian for no particular reason, or so he said.
"How did she slip past the Home Office's guard? As I hear it, some eager beaver petitioned the Home Office who put no obstacles in the way of a retrial." Sir Ian asked in even tones. Inwardly, he was fuming as his understanding was that it would have been absurdly simple for them to block off that particular approach.
"My predecessor granted Ms Wade leave to appeal." Neil Haughton responded, an artificial grin pasted on his face that didn't really convince. Sir Ian looked stonily into the distance. Typical politician he thought. "Left to me, I would have left her there to rot. I believe in law and order, being tough on crime," he added eagerly, already slipping into Party Political Broadcast mode of talking, his arms outstretched." After all, we can't allow our bobbies on the beat to be shown such disrespect. How can the ordinary citizen feel safe in bed if such outrages are allowed to spread unchecked?"
"Quite," concluded Sir Ian."
The tension in the court wound itself tight as if it were an elastic band ready to snap, as the entire world seemed to focus in on the words that hovered on the lips of the Judge Huntley, ready to be spoken. The logic of the judgment demanded that it should happen but the words needed to be said, most of all for Nikki who tensely grasped the rail, her eyes wide open and staring.
"Nicola Wade, you are free to go, " pronounced Judge Huntley in grave tones.
Donald Frobisher slumped down in his place and stared down at his sheaf of papers, now rendered suddenly obsolete. He knew that he was beaten when Ms Chambers had utterly overturned the credibility of the police. He also knew that he had won no popularity contests with the establishment and that his card would be marked. He slunk out of court while Nikki walked with legs of jelly down the staircase and held up only by the rapturous applause. At the bottom of the staircase, Claire and Marion were there to greet her. Trisha was especially excited and she supposed that she was destined to return to her old life. But somewhere out there was Helen, the one person who had made it possible, who had said goodbye to her with as many tears in her eyes as there were in Nikki's.
To the side of the gathering crowd and ignored by them, an expectant young man dressed in a sharp suit looked questioningly at Donald Frobisher as he stumbled towards him.
"Bad result?"
"Three years only for manslaughter and she's done the time. She's in the middle of the crowd over there ready to gloat to the press out there."
"This way. I'll have to phone in the bad news right now. The press will make a meal of this."
At that very moment, Lawrence James picked up the phone. As a few brief words sounded in his ear, he reddened, clutched the mobile in his hand as if to break it and turned to Neil Haughton.
"We lost."
"It'll be on the news right now. Let's hear the worst," groaned Neil Haughton.
Lawrence James clicked the remote control on the small portable TV and the screen showed the view down onto the steps of the Court of Appeal and a small group. The camera zoomed in on a tall woman with short hair dressed in black not looking as half as jubilant as they had expected and holding centre stage.
"How does it feel like to be free?"
"It goes without saying that I'm delighted to be set free…..Prison's a terrible place. People don't know the half of what goes on. There's male officers employed on female residential wings, abusing vulnerable women. Anyway, I was one of the lucky few inside to get access to some real education and there's one woman I want to thank for all that because she always believed in me no matter how bad things got. I owe her not only my freedom but my life."
In an unknown bar, tears streamed down Helen's face as she saw through the television screen as Nikki poured out her heart to her. It was absolutely certain that Nikki would head off to her club to celebrate and she had to see her and talk to her. Precisely what she would say to her, she hadn't the faintest idea. For once in her life, she was utterly incapable of planning the way ahead.
At the Lord Chancellor's Department, a stony silence reigned, flavoured with slight puzzlement.
"The tabloids will crucify us." Sir Ian said at length.
"I suppose some bleeding heart liberal will be satisfied- till the next time." Neil Haughton said eventually. "You would have thought she would be grateful to get out and thank 'British justice' like they all do. She's got a nerve to criticize our wonderful prison service. If you don't want to do the time, don't commit the crime, as they say."
Quite unconscious how his words echoed that of Shell Dockley he stomped off in disgust. His avaricious temperament had been long accustomed to winning whatever he set his mind on and was an especially bad loser.
"Who on earth was that do-gooding woman she was talking about?"
"I suppose we'll never know. I suppose I had better get back to work. There's nothing for us here. I suppose every judge in England will hear what's happened." Sir Ian exclaimed disgustedly. For once, the establishment grapevine was silent on the subject
A few miles away, in a side street where passing cars flashed by, two women were locked in a passionate embrace. The smaller woman pressed the other up against a wall and her fingers were eagerly running through the other woman's short-cropped hair. For them, time hung suspended and their lives were only just beginning.