False Witness by Dexter Dias Read Free Book Online Page B

judges as my temples pounded and my tongue felt like sandpaper. What I wouldn’t
     have given to be back in bed. For ten minutes tucked up in my duck-feather duvet, I would gladly have sold that small knot
     of indigestion which I sometimes mistook for my soul. I needed to hide.
    I tried to recall the excuses I’d given Manly in the past when I’d been late, but couldn’t remember. I had a versatile repertoire:
     car broken into and brief stolen, burst water-pipe, daughter taken sick. I used to be particularly ashamed of the last one—but
     it worked. It was too risky, I decided. There was only one solution: I had to think of something new.
    Suddenly I came across a funny little man with a sheepish expression.
    “Are you involved in the trial in Court 8?” he asked.
    “Why?” I replied. “Are you a witness in the case?”
    The man laughed.
    “Prosecution or defense?” I asked.
    “That depends,” he said.
    “On what?”
    “On which way you look at it.”
    Then I had an idea. “You’re not Philip Templeman, are you?”
    Again, the man laughed, “No,” he said. “I’m not Philip Templeman. Can you tell me where the public gallery is?”
    “The queue is outside,” I said. “Anyway, only barristers and witnesses actually giving evidence are allowed inside the building.
     I don’t know how you got past security, but—never mind. You better hurry.”
    But it was me who did the hurrying as I headed toward the staircase. I wasn’t sure what to do and then it came to me. For
     there is, I suppose, a certain low cunning in a drunk. And by climbing the stairs, I reached the small library attached to
     the Bar Mess at the very top of the building. From there I was able to buzz down to the reception on the internal telephone.
    “This is leading counsel for the defense in Court 8,” I said, trying to speak as impressively as I could. “Tell the court
     clerk to give a message to Miss Emma Sharpe of counsel. I am digging out some important legal authorities. For some reason—it
     really is most annoying—the wretched clock has stopped. Ask Miss Sharpe to hold the fort until I arrive.” The receptionist’s
     scribblings finally caught up with my lies. “Immediately,” I said. Then as an afterthought, “And send someone to mend the
     clock.”
    I put the phone down and exhaled with relief. There was a rickety armchair in the corner of the library. Its dark tan leather
     peeled off it like dried skin and when I clambered onto it, it was easy to pull out the electrical wires behind the clock
     and move the hands back to 10:20. I can’t remember whether I spared a thought for Emma, whom I had condemned to endure Davenport’s
     heavy-handed oratory, as I headed to the Bar Mess for a coffee.
    “Where on earth have you been?” demanded Emma.
    The court had risen for five minutes and I took the opportunity to sneak in.
    “Researching the law,” I said.
    Emma looked at me with a mixture of incredulity and irritation. “You haven’t looked up the law since your Bar exams—and I’m
     not sure you looked at it then. Where were you?”
    “All rise,” bellowed Norman, the usher. He loved that moment. Norman prided himself on having the loudest voice at the Bailey
     and in the days of Dick Whittington and public floggings he would have been the town crier or the person who counted out the
     strokes of the lash.
    There was a rustling of winter coats and heavy suits as everyone got to their feet. Manly strode in with two Aldermen from
     the City of London, who sometimes accompanied an Old Bailey judge into court. I rather think Ignatius Manly enjoyed having
     all those white folks bowing to him.
    Manly took his place on the Bench directly behind Leonard, the clerk. Then the judge spotted me. I’d taken the precaution
     of carrying as many legal tomes as I could manage, and bowed deeply toward him.
    “Why were you late, Tom?” Emma was not satisfied.
    “Considering the brief,” I said. Her expression was