With deliberate slowness, the sergeant saunters toward a bank of filing cabinets on the rear wall. A biscuit is stuck to the backside of his trousers and the pink icing is melting into his rump. I allow myself a smile.
According to the charge sheet Bobby was arrested in central London eighteen days ago. He pleaded guilty at Bow Street Magistrate’s Court and was bailed to appear again on December 24 at the Old Bailey. Malicious wounding is a Section 20 offense— assault causing grievous bodily harm. It carries a maximum penalty of five years in jail.
Bobby’s statement is typed over three pages, double-spaced, with the corrections initialed in the margins. He makes no mention of the little boy or his argument with the jeweler. The woman had jumped the queue. For her troubles, she suffered a fractured jaw, depressed cheekbone, broken nose and three busted fingers.
“Where do I find out about the bail conditions?”
The sergeant leafs through the file and runs his finger down a court document.
“Eddie Barrett has the brief.” He grunts in disgust. “He’ll have this downgraded to actual bodily harm quicker than you can say ring-a-ding-ding.”
How did Bobby get a lawyer like Eddie Barrett? He’s the best-known defense solicitor in the country, with a genius for self-promotion and the ability to produce the perfect sound bite on the courthouse steps.
Eddie made his name a few years back by spearheading a class action against the Maastricht Treaty to stop the British government from ditching the pound. During the case he took to wearing Union Jack waistcoats and was rumored to have a tattoo of Her Majesty above his heart. Another rumor said he had no heart.
“How much was the bail?”
“Five grand.”
Where would Bobby find that sort of money?
I glance at my watch. It’s still only five thirty. Eddie’s secretary answers the phone and I can hear Eddie shouting in the background. She apologizes and asks me to wait. The two of them shout at each other. It’s like listening to a domestic fight. Eventually, she comes back to me. Eddie can give me twenty minutes.
It’s quicker to walk than to take a taxi to Chancery Lane. Buzzed through the main door, I climb the narrow stairs to the third floor, weaving past boxes of court documents and files, which have been stacked in every available space.
Eddie is talking on the phone as he ushers me into his office and points to a chair. I have to move two files to sit down. Eddie looks to be in his late fifties but is probably ten years younger. Whenever I’ve seen him interviewed on TV he’s put me in mind of a bulldog. He has the same swagger, with his shoulders barely moving and his ass swinging back and forth. He even has large incisor teeth, which must come in handy when ripping strips off people.
When I mention Bobby’s name Eddie looks disappointed. I think he was hoping for a medical malpractice case. He spins his chair and begins searching the drawer of a filing cabinet.
“What did Bobby tell you about the attack?”
“You saw his statement.”
“Did he mention seeing a young boy?”
“No.”
Eddie interrupts tiredly. “Look, I don’t want to get off on the wrong foot here, Madonna, but just explain to me why the fuck I’m talking to you. No offense.”
“None taken.” He’s a lot less pleasant up close. I start again. “Did Bobby mention he was seeing a psychologist?”
Eddie’s mood improves. “Shit no! Tell me more.”
“I’ve been seeing him for about six months. I also think he’s been evaluated before but I don’t have the records.”
“A history of mental illness— better and better.” He picks up a ringing telephone and motions for me to carry on. He’s trying to conduct two conversations at once.
“Did Bobby tell you why he lost his temper?”
“She took his cab.”
“It’s hardly a reason.”
“You ever tried to get a cab in Holborn on a wet Friday afternoon?” He half chuckles.
“I think there’s more to it than that.”
Eddie sighs. “Listen, Pollyanna, I don’t ask my clients to tell me the truth. I just keep them out of jail so they can go and make the same mistakes all over again.”
“The woman— what did she look like?”
“A fucking mess if you look at the photographs.”
“How old?”
“Mid-forties. Dark hair…”
“What was she wearing?”
“Just a second.” He hangs up the phone and yells to his secretary to get him Bobby’s file. Then he rifles through the pages, humming to himself.
“Mid-thigh skirt, high heels, a short jacket… mutton dressed as lamb if you ask me. Why do you want to know?”
I can’t tell him. It’s only half an idea.
“What’s going to happen to Bobby?”
“Right now he faces prison time. The crown prosecution service won’t downgrade the charges.”
“Jail isn’t going to help him. I can do you a psych report. Maybe I can get him into an anger management program.”
“What do you want from me?”
“A written request.”
Eddie’s pen is already moving. I can’t remember the last time I could write that fluidly. He slides it across the desk.
“Thanks for this.”
He grunts. “It’s a letter not a kidney.”
If ever a man had issues. Maybe it’s a Napoleon complex or he’s trying to compensate for being ugly. He’s bored with me now. The subject no longer interests him. I ask my questions quickly.
“Who put up the bail?”
“No idea.”
“And who phoned you?”
“He did.”
Before I can say anything else, he interrupts.
“Listen, Oprah, I’m due at a Law Society drinks party and I need a pee. This kid is
10
Julianne is doing her stretching exercises in the spare bedroom. She does these yogalike poses every morning with names that sound like Indian squaws. Babbling Brook meets Running Deer.
A veteran early riser, she is combat ready by 6:30 a.m. Nothing like me. I’ve been seeing bloody and beaten faces all night in my dreams.
Julianne pads barefoot into the bedroom wearing just a pajama top. She bends to kiss me.
“You had a restless night.”
Pressing her head against my chest, she lets her fingers go tap-dancing up my spine until she feels me shiver. She is reminding me that she knows every square inch of me.
“Remember I told you about Charlie singing carols with the choir?”
“Uh-huh.”
