A/n: A government health warning is attached to this piece for the reader
This piece is based on Kristine's Part 19 before I warped the storyline.
Arthur Conan Doyle's "The Hound of the Baskervilles" is quoted.
Watching "Monty Python's Flying Circus" must be floating round my subconscious.
Part Forty One
It was another day for John in the Crown versus Atkins trial, where everything seemed normal, apart from one indefinable thing that was wrong, as Neuman Mason-Alan prepared to question his next witness. Something seemed strangely different…
"Detective Inspector Sullivan, please could you tell the court about the day you arrested Lauren Atkins? What you did when you called on her? What she said to you?" DI Sullivan looked very smug and pleased with himself, to be up before Monty Everard who was well known to bend over in sympathy towards police witnesses.
"Lauren Atkins wasn't very pleased to see me. She took a while to open the door, possibly taking the time to check out my colleague, Detective Sergeant Greer, first and then me, before allowing us entry in to her house. She told me that she couldn't guarantee my safety with her Alsatian dog. Lauren Atkins took my presence as an immediate threat, and used the threat of her dog's teeth to attempt to keep me and my colleague from questioning her." "How did Lauren Atkins react to your questioning?" Asked Neumann Mason-Alan. "She was rude, belligerent and utterly refused to co-operate." "My Lord," said Jo, rising to her feet. "This is a prejudicial statement against my client's character, which cannot be proved…" Jo started to say, before being rudely cut off by the man who had been judge before her also at the PCC hearing. He was after payback, however much he dressed it up in legal phrases.
"Mrs. Mills, I feel that I am quite in order to hear evidence from the police as to the way she behaved. You will have the chance to cross-examine the witness later.
Proceed, Mr. Mason Alan."
"Not if I can help it or you will end up before me on a charge of contempt of court, DI Sullivan." John replied sternly. Stunned looks focussed in from all around him as his forceful words created a noticeable ripple of consternation. He looked around him but where were his red robes and wig?
"Detective Inspector Sullivan," Mason-Alan returned to his questioning. "Did Lauren Atkins show any inclination to be co-operative once you returned with her to the police station?" "Not in the least," Sullivan replied, seeing in the prosecuting barrister a man after his own heart. "She refused to tell us anything. Not one single detail. Even when we offered her the advice of the duty solicitor, she refused to say a word." "What about when you presented her with the evidence of the gun, the spade and the empty cartridge case? Did this not provoke any reaction from her?" "No, not a thing. Miss. Lauren Atkins," Sullivan said, slowly spacing out the words, "has obviously been well coached in how to deal with a visit from the law. I have had occasion to question her mother, Yvonne Atkins, and neither woman has ever given the police the time of day." "A word here, DC Sullivan. You should take care not to use the word 'obviously' in court, as it is not in the language of a prosecution case." Monty Everard's tone was that of an indulgent parent, mildly and ineffectively administering a mild reproof to a spoilt brat of a son.
"I apologise, my lord," DI Sullivan answered in smarmy obsequious tones. "Was there anything in the claimant's demeanour and the circumstances of the defendant's arrest, which gave you the slightest doubt that the claimant might be innocent of the brutal murder of James Fenner?" "None in the least. I felt that I'd got the right person banged to rights."
"Detective Inspector Sullivan," Jo began, launching into the attack with the added venom of righteous fury unchained at last. "I want to come back to the matter of when the defendant let you in. Are you seriously suggesting that she used the presence of her dog to intimidate you? Did you not consider an alternative suggestion? That the defendant merely took the precaution of ensuring that a dog, though used to regular visitors, might react differently when a member of the police force calls at the defendant's house? It is the natural instinct of a dog to protect the home of his mistress." "You evidently did not see the dog, dear," Sneered DI Sullivan. "The animal was a huge black Alsatian, with a nasty look in its eye and bared its teeth and growled…a hound it was, an enormous coal-black hound, but not such a hound as mortal eyes have ever seen. Fire burst from its mouth, its eyes glowed with a smouldering glare, and its muzzle and hackles and dewlap were outlined in flickering flame…" Fear stared nakedly out of DI Sullivan's eyes and he shivered at the horror of that primeval scene.
"I shall produce in evidence a full psychiatric report carried out by Dr Waugh on the dog concerned whose name is Trigger. You will find it in your bundle of evidence as item 3L.
Trigger Atkins: psychiatric report
Name: Trigger Atkins. Case Number: 240073. Date: 15/01/04. Attending Psychiatrist: Dr. Thomas Waugh.
The witness's adoptive mother and his appealing eyes asked me to give evidence on his behalf, when they called at my office, in the case of the Crown versus Atkins. Neumann Mason-Alan QC, to examine Trigger Atkins. In performing this duty, I was invited to pay particular attention to the antecedents of the dog as an indicating factor in the probability or otherwise, of the said dog in threatening DI Sullivan when he came to arrest the defendant on the 12th of January 2004. It casts a light on the reliability of the arresting officer DI Sullivan and finally, as an indication of the background of the Atkins family in the newly evolving cross discipline of human and animal psychology.
I have found that Trigger has a complex personality that has many layers. The underlying, primeval layer is, of course, the distant wolverine ancestry. This disposition is of the carnivorous hunter reliant on the cooperation of the pack for survival, with complex interrelationships of dominant and less dominant members. Strong loyalties bind the pack together and also a degree of affection between members of the pack. A perceived threat to individual members and to the pack as a whole will be met by such aggression by means of teeth and claws such as to drive off the assailant.
Centuries of human socialisation will have tamed the native savagery and transformed the species into the Man's Best Friend, which we know today. However, this degree of socialisation will have only a contingent and not a necessary effect on the canine behaviour patterns. In short, the way the dog is treated will partly shape its response patterns and in particular, research has shown the strong connection between an aggressive and snappy household and an aggressive and snappy dog and vice versa.
In Trigger's case, his adoptive father, Charlie Atkins, who named the dog, and trained him to behave aggressively on request, decisively shaped his upbringing as a puppy and as a whelp. There has always been a strong lurking need for affection which his adoptive mother and sister, Yvonne and Lauren Atkins respectively, provided.
This secondary characteristic became of decisive importance on the death of Charlie Atkins and completed the degree of socialisation needed for a member of the Alsatian sub species. They also brought out a strong, playful and humorous side to his personality, whereby unwelcome guests would be made to feel the appearance of aggression while Trigger was only doing it for a joke, taking advantage of the natural human fear of apparently aggressive dogs. Trigger confesses to me that he finds such a reaction intensely amusing. Otherwise, Trigger is a benevolent, kindly dog whose wolverine ancestry is confined to leading various members of his pack around his territory, the confines of his house and exercises an entirely benevolent form of pack leadership. The fact that humans feel that they are in charge and the master /mistress is an illusion that Trigger is happy to exploit.
This report does, of course, throw a strong light on the defendant's personality, who by studying Trigger's personality, is only driven to violence in extreme situations and whose decisive personality quirk is to appear tougher than she is, out of an ingrained family instinct.
………………………………………………………………………………………………
"I am ruling this ridiculously timewasting and irrelevant idiocy out of order. A psychiatrist cannot purport to produce a psychiatric report on a dog, which will have no command of the Queen's English. In all my years on the bench, there is no legal precedent to take evidence elicited from a dog," Growled Monty Everard. "Just whose trial is this, anyway?" "It should be mine and now is," Retorted John. "DI Sullivan, you have completely fabricated the evidence and, what is worse, you have stolen a passage in the writings of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's "Hound of the Baskervilles." I trust that the famous Sherlock Holmes story is not to be offered in evidence. Though, I don't know, the fictional work is more literary and more factual than the shaky evidence of this complete imbecile." John's force of personality grabbed hold of the court marginalising Monty Everard to a spluttering irrelevance. Everyone looked to him as always. "Jesus Nikki! The judge is more trouble than the rest of us in the gallery put together," Yvonne said anxiously. She had got brinkmanship down to a fine art but this guy pushes things further than she does.
At that moment, a scratching sound could be heard on the exit door at the back of the gallery, at the top of the flight of stairs. It opened and the friendly looking Alsatian trotted down the steps, and leant his head on the balcony and draped his paws over the edge. His round eyes looked totally appealingly at the jury.
"Good boy," Karen said and patted his flank as he made small joyful barking sounds, very politely being on his best behaviour. Though the jury weren't at the angle to see a happily wagging tail, they could sense it.
"Hey Trigger, good boy Trigger." A member of the jury rashly called out before being silenced by a glare from Monty Everard. This anarchistic spirit was breaking out everywhere. Jo smiled, spread her arms in a theatrical bow and continued questioning the increasingly rattled DI Sullivan who was definitely confused by the way the trial was going.
"When you asked Lauren Atkins if she had ever heard of James Fenner, what did she say to you?" "She put on this fake, innocent expression that was supposed to fool me, and said, 'oh, wasn't he the prison officer who was murdered last October.' Then she made the connection that he used to work on the wing where her mother had been incarcerated." "And does that response strike you as unco-operative?" "No, it strikes me as a pathetic attempt to fool me. One I might add that didn't work." "By attempting to prove that my client co-operated with you during her initial interview, she did agree to give you a full, fact-filled statement at a later date, 3L in your bundle, My Lord." "You call that little fabrication a full, fact-filled statement, do you?" Sullivan asked in amusement. "Of course," Said Jo without rancour, "Why, what would you call it?" "Mrs Mills," thundered Monty Everard. "While council enjoy the traditional freedoms to cross-examine witnesses, you will not be allowed to show any disrespect in my court for the police force who are only trying to do their job in the same way that you and I do. I rule this out of order as inadmissable evidence." "Isn't that the name of a famous play performed in the West End. I went to see it with my second husband, Peter. That was one of the best plays I've ever seen," Babs' Middle England voice chipped in. "What I would call Lauren Atkins' police statement couldn't possibly be repeated in present company," Sullivan drawled with nothing but malice in his tone. "With that in mind," Jo continued, sounding amiable to only those who didn't know her. "Wouldn't it be fair to suggest that your attitude to my client was prejudiced from the start, and that your sole reason for taking on this case was because you had failed to pin another death on Yvonne Atkins? A death that I should point out for the court to be the result of a fatally allergic reaction to nuts?" "Listen dear," Sullivan said, openly snarling at Jo who remained thoroughly unmoved. "Your client," Sullivan almost spat out the word, "Is the last in a long line of criminals. Her father was one, her brother was one, and her mother, who I suspect is paying your fees, is one. Even the dog has criminal, violent tendencies. To give Lauren Atkins her due, it would have been a miracle if she hadn't ended up becoming involved in violent crime." "Inspector, Yvonne Atkins was convicted of conspiracy to commit murder, not murder itself. Does that not suggest to you that if an Atkins were thinking of committing a murder, they would far rather pay someone else to do it for them? That is, if I am willing to go along with the assumption that my client is guilty, which of course I am not." "Now you're just playing with words, about all you defence barristers are good for." "This trial has gone far enough," Monty Everard attempted to thunder with the resonance of John Deed but not quite managing it. "It is patently clear that the defendant is guilty as charged and I direct that the jury retire at this point, to consider their verdict. I have heard quite enough to consider that this is an open and shut case. I expect you, members of the jury, to come back with your unanimous verdict of guilty, as otherwise, be sure that troublemakers will be remembered and your cards marked for life. I have to get away to a pressing engagement." Right, that will do," John roared. "I shall issue a writ of habeas corpus, immediately…" "…Ah, thanks, Coop," as she materialised out of nowhere with the necessary paperwork and promptly returned to her alternative reality of manning the fort in John's chambers………" "Inspector, release that woman or I shall hold you in contempt of court instead and you, sir, will be 'banged to rights.' If you should ever have occasion to be before me again, I insist that you will undergo stringent psychological screening checks before you are ever allowed in the witness box. In the meantime, release the defendant." The frozen grip of the Prison Officers was unleashed at the sounds of John's fury and an ecstatically grateful Lauren beat a rapid retreat out of the court and away. "This behaviour is entirely outrageous, Deed," Monty Everard shouted, red in the face. "I shall resort to force to restore the rule of order." "You personally? Don't make me laugh. I could knock you down as soon as look at you," John sneered contemptuously. "I bet he's in a hurry to get his leg over some bitch," George muttered out of habit. "I told you so once." "Did you really? I must have made my one and only error of judgement. Meanwhile, to the barricades. This reminds me of my sit in days when I was at university in the sixties," Enthused John, happy memories flooding back.
"What happens if they send out for the Old Bill, Karen? We're right on their bleeding doorstep." "Well, we'll have a bit of time to play with. A couple of elderly ushers aren't going to argue with some of Larkhall's finest from both sides of the prison bars plus George if she loses her temper. I've heard that she's already broken down the door to John's chambers in an argument with John. I hate to think of what she'll do if she really gets worked up." That sent cold shivers down Nikki's spine. She was used to being the fiery orator and physically ejecting rowdy drunks from her club, not to mention getting physical with the likes of Dockley, Renee Williams and Maxi Purvis. However John Deed unchained, had a fearsome aura of uncontrolled fury, both physical and verbal which gained her awesome respect, but made her feel afraid for his total abandoned recklessness.
"George, I was going to ask you for a bit of legal. If we sort of surround the judge and use a bit of gentle persuasion on the Old Bill, can we get off with self defence?" Yvonne posed the question.
"An Englishmen's home is His Castle," John boomed, not having turned the volume down sufficiently from haranguing Sir Monty and the miserable apologies for barristers.
"Or as I was telling the Warwick Conference, about the need for greater individual freedoms against the creeping state bureaucracy, which would strangle us from birth." "Jo's the criminal expert, Yvonne, but from what I understand, if we use 'reasonable force' we might get away with it," George answered at her most hesitant and unconvinced.
Roisin shrugged her shoulders. The best thing she thought was to go with the flow, but she felt apprehensive about what to explain to Michael and Niamh in case they landed on the front page of the tabloids and first item on News at Six.
"Hey, you guys, you're forgetting something," Chimed in Cassie. "Are you telling me that five, six of the gobbiest women can't talk their way out of this jam and get the pigs to go someplace else? We don't have to use violence. We just have to blag our way out of this one and sooner or later, the judge will wear himself out." "Don't count on that," Karen and George muttered under their breath.
"I don't want to worry anyone but I can hear the sound of size ten boots clattering up the staircase. I fear that the police may try to remove us," Babs's quiet but carrying voice cut through the discussion.
"Let's get out of here," Yelled Yvonne.
Somehow the message from Sir Ian that he gabbled out on his rarely used mobile phone got distorted into the message received at New Scotland Yard and passed down to the nearest operations unit that a group of dangerous terrorists had invaded the Old Bailey for no very clear political purpose.
"Are they Islamic Militants?" the overtired Chief Inspector asked.
"They are some sort of militants, that's all." "Oh hell, scramble the helicopter and call for back up to stand by. Send the unit down with riot shields. We may need the S.A.S as well but for God's sake, they'd better be careful with the explosives. The Old Bailey is a Grade 1 listed building, and if we damage it there will be hell to pay from the National Trust."
Yvonne, Nikki and Karen had manoeuvred John to the back of the crowd and penned him in against the wall of the foyer at the top of the stairs while Babs, Cassie and Roisin flanked George at the top of the staircase.
"Sorry Judge, this is time for women's talk to get us out of this hole. Let George handle the pigs," Yvonne's smiling yet firm voice overruled John's insistence that he would issue a writ of habeas corpus to maintain the fundamental right of free speech.
"I insist on being heard." "Look here, Judge, no offence but have you ever won an argument with George in your life?" "Well, no. I could never manage to pin her down," John admitted.
"Seeing that you are a judge who has quite a good way with words, then what chance has that plonker of a plod got against George. Stands to reason." Yvonne's smile and persuasive voice wormed their way through his defences.
"I'd put my money on George," Nikki reasoned. "In fact, if you are running a book on this, I'll stake five phone cards on it." "Done." "This is a total misunderstanding." George's operatic tones thundered from the top of the stairs at the crowd of metropolitan police assembled. "This is a public gallery and, we, the general public, have a perfect right to listen." "Sorry, ma'am, we have an obligation to investigate any threat to public order. We have a report that the Old Bailey has been occupied by terrorists." "My God, do we look like terrorists?" came George's crushing reply. "I mean, my suit from Harvey Nicholls. Costs a fortune and the hang of the jacket can be a little bit disturbed by slipping in a few hand grenades or petrol bombs. Look at the rest of us. I am a practising barrister, we have a Prison Wing Governor, a High Court judge, a Vicar's wife and other perfectly respectable women." The policeman hesitated. After all, he was the one on the ground and the instructions he was given were a bit vague.
"Look here, let's get to the bottom of this," Demanded George in her most peremptory fashion. "Exactly who made the complaint against us?" "I don't know," The man was forced to admit.
"It must be that fearful cretin, Monty Everard, the judge in the courtroom behind us. He is an utter bullying tyrant and totally incompetent. I know, as I was appearing before him in a court case only last week." "That's right, sarge. I got an urgent callout once as a traffic warden was being given a load of grief and a toffee nosed git of his name was effing and blinding and wouldn't act reasonable in taking the ticket. He thinks the law is meant for everyone except him. Threatened to report me to the Police Commissioner and get me sacked, he did." "Is that true? Well, we're off lads, let him sort out his own problems, as I wouldn't touch this one, not even for double overtime rate." The sergeant shouted in his stentorian voice the time honoured call of working class struggle everywhere, except that the police force were denied the right to take strike action in 1918. "Everyone out, lads." "I must admit, you police are extremely sensible and fantastic in an emergency," George drawled in her most enthusiastic tones. "Those wretched people who go round calling you a load of Nazis must want their heads examining." They could feel a sudden chilly silence as if it was a bucket of water thrown in their faces.
"We've always had a great respect for the law," Gushed Nikki, appalled by George putting her foot in it and already feeling a pair of handcuffs round her wrists. "I watch The Bill and Crimewatch every time." "Keep smiling and walking slowly," Yvonne muttered to the others as they slowly edged out. "They might change their minds and throw us in the nearby nick after all. You too, Judge," hissed Yvonne under her breath.
"But that would be terrible, Yvonne. I've only just started my latest Patricia Cornwell." Cassie, Roisin, Babs, George and Yvonne looked at Karen as if she was crazy. Then they carried on smiling.
"But they can't do that," Protested John mildly.
"Can't they? Rule number one, Judge, is never cross the nobbing police unless you've got a bloody good alibi," Cassie's precise tones lectured him.
"Pardon?" "We've always had a good word for the police, haven't we girls," Karen's tactful voice broke in, followed by a chorus of agreement from the others, including John as smiles returned to the faces of the policemen. They were a weird unpredictable group of men who could change moods in a flash. Now their benevolent side came to the surface, they were happy to hang around while the sergeant went to tell Monty Everard the bad news.
"You have behaved in an utterly reprehensible way in my court," Thundered Monty Everard as the back doors of the courtroom were thrust aside. "I demand satisfaction. I challenge you to a duel at dawn. Sir Ian, you'll be my second." "Er, what do I have to do, my lord," spoke a very nervous Sir Ian in lowered tones.
"You don't have to do much, Ian," Sir Monty growled under his breath, "Just look after my weapon, hand it to me when I need it and be generally useful." "That lets you out," Jo's sudden blinding white sarcastic smile. "Why change the habits of a lifetime?" "Oh how so manfully very eighteenth century of you, Monty," George yawned theatrically with her most acid sarcasm.
"Don't you smite me across the face at this point with your leather gauntlet? Or doesn't your wife keep you properly supplied? Oh well, I accept your challenge so long as I choose the weapons." "John, don't be foolish," Hissed Jo.
"Just relax. I'm sure the Judge knows what he is doing," Yvonne spoke out of the corner of her mouth, a twinkle in her eye. She had seen a side of John's nature, which had peeked out in past trials before under the gravity of his robes, but this time in all its glorious anarchy.
Jo shook her head as she was not so sure but from her experience of Yvonne, wheels started turning in her mind. "It will be pistols at dawn in the old fashioned way. I shall supply the weapons. And may the best man win," He intoned with a lurking smile on his face, which Karen picked up on. "Are you sure you are not pulling our leg, John? The more you appear to be serious, the more that I suspect you of pulling some underhand, tasteless trick on us all," Sir Ian hissed at John with narrowed eyes.
"Come come, Ian, this is a serious matter. If I had suggested blunderbusses or tennis rackets, you might think that I was, in Joe Channing's immortal phrase, 'imbruting the bench'. In this case, I am merely intent on slaying a member of the bench at dawn, my accustomed hour for mayhem and murder." "The Judge is up to something, Yvonne," Nikki whispered to Yvonne.
"Yeah, this is a dead giveaway. Pity those pricks in wigs are so brain dead they can't see this one coming except begging their pardons, the female members of the profession, one of whom I can see is pissing herself laughing," Yvonne's perfected soundless sideways whisper out of the corner of her mouth. Nikki nodded assent.
At the appointed hour at the back of the grand mansion resembling a setting out of 'Brideshead Revisited' was where the duel was to take place. It was a flat close cropped grass wide pathway, stretching for hundreds of yards between two high yew hedges and a little way from an ornamental fountain, which marked the cross roads of the thoroughfares. The dawning sunlight cast a strong light on the site of the duel. On the one hand, Sir Monty was backed by Sir Ian who nervously handled his weapon. Lawrence James was quietly chatting to Brian Cantwell and the Lord Chancellor. They were all properly dressed for the occasion, stiff and formal in their best suits, while Monty Everard was resplendent in his robes of office. On the other hand, John was similarly attired but behind him was the motley band of female supporters. George and Jo's smart suits contrasted with Yvonne's leathers, Nikki's jeans and T-shirt, Cassie and Roisin's casual look and Karen's trouser suit. Yvonne performed the honours as John's second, as it was agreed that she was more familiar with firearms than anyone else.
"Remember, Judge, keep your forearm straight and line the sights on him aiming about a foot up from his dick." "Assuming he has one," George added contemptuously. John nodded in acknowledgement. Yvonne's hints, crystal clear, in contrast to the bumbling advice given long ago at Eton. He smiled wickedly to himself as he had a surprise for all of them. He had up his sleeve the most superb practical joke of his chequered career.
The two men stood, stiffly back-to-back, and on the word of command from Karen, took ten paces away from each other. Upon the word of command, each of them spun round and fired.
Hearts leapt in their mouths, expecting one of the combatants to gradually collapse in a heap, a red stain spreading to mingle with the red of the ancient robes,and the ancient art of dueling to claim yet one more victim. Karen had her medical bag packed with all the necessaries for instant first aid should the loser still live.
Instead, a thin stream of whipped cream from John's gun flew through the air and landed right in Monty Everard's nether regions, a foot lower than he had planned, while Sir Monty narrowly missed an inoffensive pigeon, which had fluttered his way too close.
"Good shot, judge," Yvonne exclaimed. "You damned blackguard," Monty Everard exclaimed, red faced as he rolled on the grass in a foetal position, thanks to the piercing, cold, concentrated Mr. Whippy substance, which had disabled him so effectively.
"You are a bounder, sir. You have broken the Queensbury Rules," Sir Ian spluttered.
"You've got the wrong sport, Ian. If you do your researches properly, the Marquis of Queensbury formalised the rules for the ancient art of boxing. In any case, I make up my own rules and you, Ian Rochester, are next and it's been a long time coming." With a look of horror on his face, Sir Ian leapt sideways, knocking over Lawrence James in the process, Then a second and third shot hit them where they lay.
Nikki danced forwards, her eyes alight with mischief and stood in front of Sir Monty, still writhing on the ground in agony.
"That wig looks better on my head than yours, Monty whatever your name is. My idea of justice is far better than yours and I deserve to wear it." With that, she picked the wig off the grass, perched it on her head as a bizarre fashion accessory and pirouetted her way back to the others.
"You pay the ultimate penalty for losing the duel, Monty," John said firmly as Karen Betts with her best menacing smile on her lips paced stealthily up to him, brandishing an outsized pair of scizzors which made Sir Monty feel apprehensive for a fresh assault on his nether regions. This was a fate worse than death, as he had a most important appointment with a woman called Julie, dressed in leather, who had conveniently arranged to bring along her own whips and handcuffs, back to his digs.
She laughed contemptuously in his face, leant over and ceremoniously snipped off his Old Etonian tie half way down from his still firmly anchored knot, which had stayed miraculously in place. A collective gasp of horror could be heard from Monty Everard's helpers at this most dastardly act of desecration.
"I am sentencing you, Montgomery Everard to the heaviest sentence that is within my power. To be laughed out of court as a total incompetent and money grabbing hypocrite," John Deed proclaimed in his most ringing tones, once more restored to his judge's throne and Monty Everard below him, and placed in the dock. "And an arse licker," Nikki's powerful voice added from the jury's box.
George and Jo, both positioned out to the right and sharing the bench, nodded firmly in agreement. Sir Ian and Lawrence James on the other side were thumbing their way through the lawbooks in a last minute panic search for a plea of mitigation. Unfortunately, their practical grasp of law was extremely rusty; being mere administrators who imperiously ordered the practicing judiciary what establishment problem needed fixing.
"Is all the jury ready now to carry out the punishment, on the count of three, one, two, three." A tremendous peal of mocking laughter rose up, like an eternal and heavenly choir echoing and re-echoing off the buildings. George's soprano glissando clearly audible above John's pronounced, emphatic thick chords. Yvonne's laughter ran free for the world to hear, while Nikki's wide smile and gleaming tones let loose a stream of celestial humour, rising close to George's top notes. Roisin's powerful Irish contralto weaved in and out of Cassie's irreverent tones.
"John, John." Jo's urgent tones broke in on him and pulled gently at him by the shoulder.
"Don't, Jo. I'm having such a good time," Came the tired reply.
Oh, so this is what it is all about, Jo smiled knowingly. After a passionate night together, John always had that little contented smile on his face first thing in the morning with the sure accompaniment of a tell tale erection. "We've overslept. It's time for court for the Atkins trial in case you've forgotten." "But I've just released her," John mumbled.
Perhaps it was the feel of Jo's hand on his bare shoulder that convinced him that he was not where he thought he was. A tiny sliver of sight between his heavy eyelids brought him back to the domesticity of Jo's bedroom and not the aftermath of the demonstration at the Old Bailey. "John, just what were you dreaming about?" "Well, you were in it…and so was George…and so was Karen…" Jo opened her eyes wide. This was sounding like a totally decadent orgy that John was dreaming of.
"……….And Monty Everard. ……And Neumann Mason-Alan…." "John, what on earth was that dream about?" Jo asked in total astonishment.
"Tell you later, remember, we're late for court," John finished, trying to work out just where the trial had left off the previous day.
Arthur Conan Doyle's "The Hound of the Baskervilles" is quoted.
Watching "Monty Python's Flying Circus" must be floating round my subconscious.
Part Forty One
It was another day for John in the Crown versus Atkins trial, where everything seemed normal, apart from one indefinable thing that was wrong, as Neuman Mason-Alan prepared to question his next witness. Something seemed strangely different…
"Detective Inspector Sullivan, please could you tell the court about the day you arrested Lauren Atkins? What you did when you called on her? What she said to you?" DI Sullivan looked very smug and pleased with himself, to be up before Monty Everard who was well known to bend over in sympathy towards police witnesses.
"Lauren Atkins wasn't very pleased to see me. She took a while to open the door, possibly taking the time to check out my colleague, Detective Sergeant Greer, first and then me, before allowing us entry in to her house. She told me that she couldn't guarantee my safety with her Alsatian dog. Lauren Atkins took my presence as an immediate threat, and used the threat of her dog's teeth to attempt to keep me and my colleague from questioning her." "How did Lauren Atkins react to your questioning?" Asked Neumann Mason-Alan. "She was rude, belligerent and utterly refused to co-operate." "My Lord," said Jo, rising to her feet. "This is a prejudicial statement against my client's character, which cannot be proved…" Jo started to say, before being rudely cut off by the man who had been judge before her also at the PCC hearing. He was after payback, however much he dressed it up in legal phrases.
"Mrs. Mills, I feel that I am quite in order to hear evidence from the police as to the way she behaved. You will have the chance to cross-examine the witness later.
Proceed, Mr. Mason Alan."
"Not if I can help it or you will end up before me on a charge of contempt of court, DI Sullivan." John replied sternly. Stunned looks focussed in from all around him as his forceful words created a noticeable ripple of consternation. He looked around him but where were his red robes and wig?
"Detective Inspector Sullivan," Mason-Alan returned to his questioning. "Did Lauren Atkins show any inclination to be co-operative once you returned with her to the police station?" "Not in the least," Sullivan replied, seeing in the prosecuting barrister a man after his own heart. "She refused to tell us anything. Not one single detail. Even when we offered her the advice of the duty solicitor, she refused to say a word." "What about when you presented her with the evidence of the gun, the spade and the empty cartridge case? Did this not provoke any reaction from her?" "No, not a thing. Miss. Lauren Atkins," Sullivan said, slowly spacing out the words, "has obviously been well coached in how to deal with a visit from the law. I have had occasion to question her mother, Yvonne Atkins, and neither woman has ever given the police the time of day." "A word here, DC Sullivan. You should take care not to use the word 'obviously' in court, as it is not in the language of a prosecution case." Monty Everard's tone was that of an indulgent parent, mildly and ineffectively administering a mild reproof to a spoilt brat of a son.
"I apologise, my lord," DI Sullivan answered in smarmy obsequious tones. "Was there anything in the claimant's demeanour and the circumstances of the defendant's arrest, which gave you the slightest doubt that the claimant might be innocent of the brutal murder of James Fenner?" "None in the least. I felt that I'd got the right person banged to rights."
"Detective Inspector Sullivan," Jo began, launching into the attack with the added venom of righteous fury unchained at last. "I want to come back to the matter of when the defendant let you in. Are you seriously suggesting that she used the presence of her dog to intimidate you? Did you not consider an alternative suggestion? That the defendant merely took the precaution of ensuring that a dog, though used to regular visitors, might react differently when a member of the police force calls at the defendant's house? It is the natural instinct of a dog to protect the home of his mistress." "You evidently did not see the dog, dear," Sneered DI Sullivan. "The animal was a huge black Alsatian, with a nasty look in its eye and bared its teeth and growled…a hound it was, an enormous coal-black hound, but not such a hound as mortal eyes have ever seen. Fire burst from its mouth, its eyes glowed with a smouldering glare, and its muzzle and hackles and dewlap were outlined in flickering flame…" Fear stared nakedly out of DI Sullivan's eyes and he shivered at the horror of that primeval scene.
"I shall produce in evidence a full psychiatric report carried out by Dr Waugh on the dog concerned whose name is Trigger. You will find it in your bundle of evidence as item 3L.
Trigger Atkins: psychiatric report
Name: Trigger Atkins. Case Number: 240073. Date: 15/01/04. Attending Psychiatrist: Dr. Thomas Waugh.
The witness's adoptive mother and his appealing eyes asked me to give evidence on his behalf, when they called at my office, in the case of the Crown versus Atkins. Neumann Mason-Alan QC, to examine Trigger Atkins. In performing this duty, I was invited to pay particular attention to the antecedents of the dog as an indicating factor in the probability or otherwise, of the said dog in threatening DI Sullivan when he came to arrest the defendant on the 12th of January 2004. It casts a light on the reliability of the arresting officer DI Sullivan and finally, as an indication of the background of the Atkins family in the newly evolving cross discipline of human and animal psychology.
I have found that Trigger has a complex personality that has many layers. The underlying, primeval layer is, of course, the distant wolverine ancestry. This disposition is of the carnivorous hunter reliant on the cooperation of the pack for survival, with complex interrelationships of dominant and less dominant members. Strong loyalties bind the pack together and also a degree of affection between members of the pack. A perceived threat to individual members and to the pack as a whole will be met by such aggression by means of teeth and claws such as to drive off the assailant.
Centuries of human socialisation will have tamed the native savagery and transformed the species into the Man's Best Friend, which we know today. However, this degree of socialisation will have only a contingent and not a necessary effect on the canine behaviour patterns. In short, the way the dog is treated will partly shape its response patterns and in particular, research has shown the strong connection between an aggressive and snappy household and an aggressive and snappy dog and vice versa.
In Trigger's case, his adoptive father, Charlie Atkins, who named the dog, and trained him to behave aggressively on request, decisively shaped his upbringing as a puppy and as a whelp. There has always been a strong lurking need for affection which his adoptive mother and sister, Yvonne and Lauren Atkins respectively, provided.
This secondary characteristic became of decisive importance on the death of Charlie Atkins and completed the degree of socialisation needed for a member of the Alsatian sub species. They also brought out a strong, playful and humorous side to his personality, whereby unwelcome guests would be made to feel the appearance of aggression while Trigger was only doing it for a joke, taking advantage of the natural human fear of apparently aggressive dogs. Trigger confesses to me that he finds such a reaction intensely amusing. Otherwise, Trigger is a benevolent, kindly dog whose wolverine ancestry is confined to leading various members of his pack around his territory, the confines of his house and exercises an entirely benevolent form of pack leadership. The fact that humans feel that they are in charge and the master /mistress is an illusion that Trigger is happy to exploit.
This report does, of course, throw a strong light on the defendant's personality, who by studying Trigger's personality, is only driven to violence in extreme situations and whose decisive personality quirk is to appear tougher than she is, out of an ingrained family instinct.
………………………………………………………………………………………………
"I am ruling this ridiculously timewasting and irrelevant idiocy out of order. A psychiatrist cannot purport to produce a psychiatric report on a dog, which will have no command of the Queen's English. In all my years on the bench, there is no legal precedent to take evidence elicited from a dog," Growled Monty Everard. "Just whose trial is this, anyway?" "It should be mine and now is," Retorted John. "DI Sullivan, you have completely fabricated the evidence and, what is worse, you have stolen a passage in the writings of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's "Hound of the Baskervilles." I trust that the famous Sherlock Holmes story is not to be offered in evidence. Though, I don't know, the fictional work is more literary and more factual than the shaky evidence of this complete imbecile." John's force of personality grabbed hold of the court marginalising Monty Everard to a spluttering irrelevance. Everyone looked to him as always. "Jesus Nikki! The judge is more trouble than the rest of us in the gallery put together," Yvonne said anxiously. She had got brinkmanship down to a fine art but this guy pushes things further than she does.
At that moment, a scratching sound could be heard on the exit door at the back of the gallery, at the top of the flight of stairs. It opened and the friendly looking Alsatian trotted down the steps, and leant his head on the balcony and draped his paws over the edge. His round eyes looked totally appealingly at the jury.
"Good boy," Karen said and patted his flank as he made small joyful barking sounds, very politely being on his best behaviour. Though the jury weren't at the angle to see a happily wagging tail, they could sense it.
"Hey Trigger, good boy Trigger." A member of the jury rashly called out before being silenced by a glare from Monty Everard. This anarchistic spirit was breaking out everywhere. Jo smiled, spread her arms in a theatrical bow and continued questioning the increasingly rattled DI Sullivan who was definitely confused by the way the trial was going.
"When you asked Lauren Atkins if she had ever heard of James Fenner, what did she say to you?" "She put on this fake, innocent expression that was supposed to fool me, and said, 'oh, wasn't he the prison officer who was murdered last October.' Then she made the connection that he used to work on the wing where her mother had been incarcerated." "And does that response strike you as unco-operative?" "No, it strikes me as a pathetic attempt to fool me. One I might add that didn't work." "By attempting to prove that my client co-operated with you during her initial interview, she did agree to give you a full, fact-filled statement at a later date, 3L in your bundle, My Lord." "You call that little fabrication a full, fact-filled statement, do you?" Sullivan asked in amusement. "Of course," Said Jo without rancour, "Why, what would you call it?" "Mrs Mills," thundered Monty Everard. "While council enjoy the traditional freedoms to cross-examine witnesses, you will not be allowed to show any disrespect in my court for the police force who are only trying to do their job in the same way that you and I do. I rule this out of order as inadmissable evidence." "Isn't that the name of a famous play performed in the West End. I went to see it with my second husband, Peter. That was one of the best plays I've ever seen," Babs' Middle England voice chipped in. "What I would call Lauren Atkins' police statement couldn't possibly be repeated in present company," Sullivan drawled with nothing but malice in his tone. "With that in mind," Jo continued, sounding amiable to only those who didn't know her. "Wouldn't it be fair to suggest that your attitude to my client was prejudiced from the start, and that your sole reason for taking on this case was because you had failed to pin another death on Yvonne Atkins? A death that I should point out for the court to be the result of a fatally allergic reaction to nuts?" "Listen dear," Sullivan said, openly snarling at Jo who remained thoroughly unmoved. "Your client," Sullivan almost spat out the word, "Is the last in a long line of criminals. Her father was one, her brother was one, and her mother, who I suspect is paying your fees, is one. Even the dog has criminal, violent tendencies. To give Lauren Atkins her due, it would have been a miracle if she hadn't ended up becoming involved in violent crime." "Inspector, Yvonne Atkins was convicted of conspiracy to commit murder, not murder itself. Does that not suggest to you that if an Atkins were thinking of committing a murder, they would far rather pay someone else to do it for them? That is, if I am willing to go along with the assumption that my client is guilty, which of course I am not." "Now you're just playing with words, about all you defence barristers are good for." "This trial has gone far enough," Monty Everard attempted to thunder with the resonance of John Deed but not quite managing it. "It is patently clear that the defendant is guilty as charged and I direct that the jury retire at this point, to consider their verdict. I have heard quite enough to consider that this is an open and shut case. I expect you, members of the jury, to come back with your unanimous verdict of guilty, as otherwise, be sure that troublemakers will be remembered and your cards marked for life. I have to get away to a pressing engagement." Right, that will do," John roared. "I shall issue a writ of habeas corpus, immediately…" "…Ah, thanks, Coop," as she materialised out of nowhere with the necessary paperwork and promptly returned to her alternative reality of manning the fort in John's chambers………" "Inspector, release that woman or I shall hold you in contempt of court instead and you, sir, will be 'banged to rights.' If you should ever have occasion to be before me again, I insist that you will undergo stringent psychological screening checks before you are ever allowed in the witness box. In the meantime, release the defendant." The frozen grip of the Prison Officers was unleashed at the sounds of John's fury and an ecstatically grateful Lauren beat a rapid retreat out of the court and away. "This behaviour is entirely outrageous, Deed," Monty Everard shouted, red in the face. "I shall resort to force to restore the rule of order." "You personally? Don't make me laugh. I could knock you down as soon as look at you," John sneered contemptuously. "I bet he's in a hurry to get his leg over some bitch," George muttered out of habit. "I told you so once." "Did you really? I must have made my one and only error of judgement. Meanwhile, to the barricades. This reminds me of my sit in days when I was at university in the sixties," Enthused John, happy memories flooding back.
"What happens if they send out for the Old Bill, Karen? We're right on their bleeding doorstep." "Well, we'll have a bit of time to play with. A couple of elderly ushers aren't going to argue with some of Larkhall's finest from both sides of the prison bars plus George if she loses her temper. I've heard that she's already broken down the door to John's chambers in an argument with John. I hate to think of what she'll do if she really gets worked up." That sent cold shivers down Nikki's spine. She was used to being the fiery orator and physically ejecting rowdy drunks from her club, not to mention getting physical with the likes of Dockley, Renee Williams and Maxi Purvis. However John Deed unchained, had a fearsome aura of uncontrolled fury, both physical and verbal which gained her awesome respect, but made her feel afraid for his total abandoned recklessness.
"George, I was going to ask you for a bit of legal. If we sort of surround the judge and use a bit of gentle persuasion on the Old Bill, can we get off with self defence?" Yvonne posed the question.
"An Englishmen's home is His Castle," John boomed, not having turned the volume down sufficiently from haranguing Sir Monty and the miserable apologies for barristers.
"Or as I was telling the Warwick Conference, about the need for greater individual freedoms against the creeping state bureaucracy, which would strangle us from birth." "Jo's the criminal expert, Yvonne, but from what I understand, if we use 'reasonable force' we might get away with it," George answered at her most hesitant and unconvinced.
Roisin shrugged her shoulders. The best thing she thought was to go with the flow, but she felt apprehensive about what to explain to Michael and Niamh in case they landed on the front page of the tabloids and first item on News at Six.
"Hey, you guys, you're forgetting something," Chimed in Cassie. "Are you telling me that five, six of the gobbiest women can't talk their way out of this jam and get the pigs to go someplace else? We don't have to use violence. We just have to blag our way out of this one and sooner or later, the judge will wear himself out." "Don't count on that," Karen and George muttered under their breath.
"I don't want to worry anyone but I can hear the sound of size ten boots clattering up the staircase. I fear that the police may try to remove us," Babs's quiet but carrying voice cut through the discussion.
"Let's get out of here," Yelled Yvonne.
Somehow the message from Sir Ian that he gabbled out on his rarely used mobile phone got distorted into the message received at New Scotland Yard and passed down to the nearest operations unit that a group of dangerous terrorists had invaded the Old Bailey for no very clear political purpose.
"Are they Islamic Militants?" the overtired Chief Inspector asked.
"They are some sort of militants, that's all." "Oh hell, scramble the helicopter and call for back up to stand by. Send the unit down with riot shields. We may need the S.A.S as well but for God's sake, they'd better be careful with the explosives. The Old Bailey is a Grade 1 listed building, and if we damage it there will be hell to pay from the National Trust."
Yvonne, Nikki and Karen had manoeuvred John to the back of the crowd and penned him in against the wall of the foyer at the top of the stairs while Babs, Cassie and Roisin flanked George at the top of the staircase.
"Sorry Judge, this is time for women's talk to get us out of this hole. Let George handle the pigs," Yvonne's smiling yet firm voice overruled John's insistence that he would issue a writ of habeas corpus to maintain the fundamental right of free speech.
"I insist on being heard." "Look here, Judge, no offence but have you ever won an argument with George in your life?" "Well, no. I could never manage to pin her down," John admitted.
"Seeing that you are a judge who has quite a good way with words, then what chance has that plonker of a plod got against George. Stands to reason." Yvonne's smile and persuasive voice wormed their way through his defences.
"I'd put my money on George," Nikki reasoned. "In fact, if you are running a book on this, I'll stake five phone cards on it." "Done." "This is a total misunderstanding." George's operatic tones thundered from the top of the stairs at the crowd of metropolitan police assembled. "This is a public gallery and, we, the general public, have a perfect right to listen." "Sorry, ma'am, we have an obligation to investigate any threat to public order. We have a report that the Old Bailey has been occupied by terrorists." "My God, do we look like terrorists?" came George's crushing reply. "I mean, my suit from Harvey Nicholls. Costs a fortune and the hang of the jacket can be a little bit disturbed by slipping in a few hand grenades or petrol bombs. Look at the rest of us. I am a practising barrister, we have a Prison Wing Governor, a High Court judge, a Vicar's wife and other perfectly respectable women." The policeman hesitated. After all, he was the one on the ground and the instructions he was given were a bit vague.
"Look here, let's get to the bottom of this," Demanded George in her most peremptory fashion. "Exactly who made the complaint against us?" "I don't know," The man was forced to admit.
"It must be that fearful cretin, Monty Everard, the judge in the courtroom behind us. He is an utter bullying tyrant and totally incompetent. I know, as I was appearing before him in a court case only last week." "That's right, sarge. I got an urgent callout once as a traffic warden was being given a load of grief and a toffee nosed git of his name was effing and blinding and wouldn't act reasonable in taking the ticket. He thinks the law is meant for everyone except him. Threatened to report me to the Police Commissioner and get me sacked, he did." "Is that true? Well, we're off lads, let him sort out his own problems, as I wouldn't touch this one, not even for double overtime rate." The sergeant shouted in his stentorian voice the time honoured call of working class struggle everywhere, except that the police force were denied the right to take strike action in 1918. "Everyone out, lads." "I must admit, you police are extremely sensible and fantastic in an emergency," George drawled in her most enthusiastic tones. "Those wretched people who go round calling you a load of Nazis must want their heads examining." They could feel a sudden chilly silence as if it was a bucket of water thrown in their faces.
"We've always had a great respect for the law," Gushed Nikki, appalled by George putting her foot in it and already feeling a pair of handcuffs round her wrists. "I watch The Bill and Crimewatch every time." "Keep smiling and walking slowly," Yvonne muttered to the others as they slowly edged out. "They might change their minds and throw us in the nearby nick after all. You too, Judge," hissed Yvonne under her breath.
"But that would be terrible, Yvonne. I've only just started my latest Patricia Cornwell." Cassie, Roisin, Babs, George and Yvonne looked at Karen as if she was crazy. Then they carried on smiling.
"But they can't do that," Protested John mildly.
"Can't they? Rule number one, Judge, is never cross the nobbing police unless you've got a bloody good alibi," Cassie's precise tones lectured him.
"Pardon?" "We've always had a good word for the police, haven't we girls," Karen's tactful voice broke in, followed by a chorus of agreement from the others, including John as smiles returned to the faces of the policemen. They were a weird unpredictable group of men who could change moods in a flash. Now their benevolent side came to the surface, they were happy to hang around while the sergeant went to tell Monty Everard the bad news.
"You have behaved in an utterly reprehensible way in my court," Thundered Monty Everard as the back doors of the courtroom were thrust aside. "I demand satisfaction. I challenge you to a duel at dawn. Sir Ian, you'll be my second." "Er, what do I have to do, my lord," spoke a very nervous Sir Ian in lowered tones.
"You don't have to do much, Ian," Sir Monty growled under his breath, "Just look after my weapon, hand it to me when I need it and be generally useful." "That lets you out," Jo's sudden blinding white sarcastic smile. "Why change the habits of a lifetime?" "Oh how so manfully very eighteenth century of you, Monty," George yawned theatrically with her most acid sarcasm.
"Don't you smite me across the face at this point with your leather gauntlet? Or doesn't your wife keep you properly supplied? Oh well, I accept your challenge so long as I choose the weapons." "John, don't be foolish," Hissed Jo.
"Just relax. I'm sure the Judge knows what he is doing," Yvonne spoke out of the corner of her mouth, a twinkle in her eye. She had seen a side of John's nature, which had peeked out in past trials before under the gravity of his robes, but this time in all its glorious anarchy.
Jo shook her head as she was not so sure but from her experience of Yvonne, wheels started turning in her mind. "It will be pistols at dawn in the old fashioned way. I shall supply the weapons. And may the best man win," He intoned with a lurking smile on his face, which Karen picked up on. "Are you sure you are not pulling our leg, John? The more you appear to be serious, the more that I suspect you of pulling some underhand, tasteless trick on us all," Sir Ian hissed at John with narrowed eyes.
"Come come, Ian, this is a serious matter. If I had suggested blunderbusses or tennis rackets, you might think that I was, in Joe Channing's immortal phrase, 'imbruting the bench'. In this case, I am merely intent on slaying a member of the bench at dawn, my accustomed hour for mayhem and murder." "The Judge is up to something, Yvonne," Nikki whispered to Yvonne.
"Yeah, this is a dead giveaway. Pity those pricks in wigs are so brain dead they can't see this one coming except begging their pardons, the female members of the profession, one of whom I can see is pissing herself laughing," Yvonne's perfected soundless sideways whisper out of the corner of her mouth. Nikki nodded assent.
At the appointed hour at the back of the grand mansion resembling a setting out of 'Brideshead Revisited' was where the duel was to take place. It was a flat close cropped grass wide pathway, stretching for hundreds of yards between two high yew hedges and a little way from an ornamental fountain, which marked the cross roads of the thoroughfares. The dawning sunlight cast a strong light on the site of the duel. On the one hand, Sir Monty was backed by Sir Ian who nervously handled his weapon. Lawrence James was quietly chatting to Brian Cantwell and the Lord Chancellor. They were all properly dressed for the occasion, stiff and formal in their best suits, while Monty Everard was resplendent in his robes of office. On the other hand, John was similarly attired but behind him was the motley band of female supporters. George and Jo's smart suits contrasted with Yvonne's leathers, Nikki's jeans and T-shirt, Cassie and Roisin's casual look and Karen's trouser suit. Yvonne performed the honours as John's second, as it was agreed that she was more familiar with firearms than anyone else.
"Remember, Judge, keep your forearm straight and line the sights on him aiming about a foot up from his dick." "Assuming he has one," George added contemptuously. John nodded in acknowledgement. Yvonne's hints, crystal clear, in contrast to the bumbling advice given long ago at Eton. He smiled wickedly to himself as he had a surprise for all of them. He had up his sleeve the most superb practical joke of his chequered career.
The two men stood, stiffly back-to-back, and on the word of command from Karen, took ten paces away from each other. Upon the word of command, each of them spun round and fired.
Hearts leapt in their mouths, expecting one of the combatants to gradually collapse in a heap, a red stain spreading to mingle with the red of the ancient robes,and the ancient art of dueling to claim yet one more victim. Karen had her medical bag packed with all the necessaries for instant first aid should the loser still live.
Instead, a thin stream of whipped cream from John's gun flew through the air and landed right in Monty Everard's nether regions, a foot lower than he had planned, while Sir Monty narrowly missed an inoffensive pigeon, which had fluttered his way too close.
"Good shot, judge," Yvonne exclaimed. "You damned blackguard," Monty Everard exclaimed, red faced as he rolled on the grass in a foetal position, thanks to the piercing, cold, concentrated Mr. Whippy substance, which had disabled him so effectively.
"You are a bounder, sir. You have broken the Queensbury Rules," Sir Ian spluttered.
"You've got the wrong sport, Ian. If you do your researches properly, the Marquis of Queensbury formalised the rules for the ancient art of boxing. In any case, I make up my own rules and you, Ian Rochester, are next and it's been a long time coming." With a look of horror on his face, Sir Ian leapt sideways, knocking over Lawrence James in the process, Then a second and third shot hit them where they lay.
Nikki danced forwards, her eyes alight with mischief and stood in front of Sir Monty, still writhing on the ground in agony.
"That wig looks better on my head than yours, Monty whatever your name is. My idea of justice is far better than yours and I deserve to wear it." With that, she picked the wig off the grass, perched it on her head as a bizarre fashion accessory and pirouetted her way back to the others.
"You pay the ultimate penalty for losing the duel, Monty," John said firmly as Karen Betts with her best menacing smile on her lips paced stealthily up to him, brandishing an outsized pair of scizzors which made Sir Monty feel apprehensive for a fresh assault on his nether regions. This was a fate worse than death, as he had a most important appointment with a woman called Julie, dressed in leather, who had conveniently arranged to bring along her own whips and handcuffs, back to his digs.
She laughed contemptuously in his face, leant over and ceremoniously snipped off his Old Etonian tie half way down from his still firmly anchored knot, which had stayed miraculously in place. A collective gasp of horror could be heard from Monty Everard's helpers at this most dastardly act of desecration.
"I am sentencing you, Montgomery Everard to the heaviest sentence that is within my power. To be laughed out of court as a total incompetent and money grabbing hypocrite," John Deed proclaimed in his most ringing tones, once more restored to his judge's throne and Monty Everard below him, and placed in the dock. "And an arse licker," Nikki's powerful voice added from the jury's box.
George and Jo, both positioned out to the right and sharing the bench, nodded firmly in agreement. Sir Ian and Lawrence James on the other side were thumbing their way through the lawbooks in a last minute panic search for a plea of mitigation. Unfortunately, their practical grasp of law was extremely rusty; being mere administrators who imperiously ordered the practicing judiciary what establishment problem needed fixing.
"Is all the jury ready now to carry out the punishment, on the count of three, one, two, three." A tremendous peal of mocking laughter rose up, like an eternal and heavenly choir echoing and re-echoing off the buildings. George's soprano glissando clearly audible above John's pronounced, emphatic thick chords. Yvonne's laughter ran free for the world to hear, while Nikki's wide smile and gleaming tones let loose a stream of celestial humour, rising close to George's top notes. Roisin's powerful Irish contralto weaved in and out of Cassie's irreverent tones.
"John, John." Jo's urgent tones broke in on him and pulled gently at him by the shoulder.
"Don't, Jo. I'm having such a good time," Came the tired reply.
Oh, so this is what it is all about, Jo smiled knowingly. After a passionate night together, John always had that little contented smile on his face first thing in the morning with the sure accompaniment of a tell tale erection. "We've overslept. It's time for court for the Atkins trial in case you've forgotten." "But I've just released her," John mumbled.
Perhaps it was the feel of Jo's hand on his bare shoulder that convinced him that he was not where he thought he was. A tiny sliver of sight between his heavy eyelids brought him back to the domesticity of Jo's bedroom and not the aftermath of the demonstration at the Old Bailey. "John, just what were you dreaming about?" "Well, you were in it…and so was George…and so was Karen…" Jo opened her eyes wide. This was sounding like a totally decadent orgy that John was dreaming of.
"……….And Monty Everard. ……And Neumann Mason-Alan…." "John, what on earth was that dream about?" Jo asked in total astonishment.
"Tell you later, remember, we're late for court," John finished, trying to work out just where the trial had left off the previous day.