‘You know it. I told you before,’ the youth said. He was of Caribbean descent, probably Jamaican, born in England.
Legal aid had been provided. Across from Isaac, an Asian woman dressed in neat and tidy blue jacket and trousers. She looked competent.
‘It’s important that you answer,’ the woman said.
‘My friends call me Wazza.’
‘It’s a game they play,’ Ross said, looking over at Isaac. ‘Thinks it makes them look big, coming in here and wasting our time. A badge of honour, us asking them questions, the magistrate letting them off. Street cred, the only qualifications they are likely to ever have.’
Isaac could sympathise with Bill Ross, and it was true, the young man was part of a legion of unemployed, straight out of school, no chance of a job, onto the street and surviving the only way they knew. It was a failing of the government, he knew, the government that had condemned his parents to purgatory and slum landlords when they had arrived in the country before he had been born. Back then, there had been racial prejudice, and although he rarely experienced it, he knew that in Canning Town he still would.
Nothing changes. The underdog would always be there, as would crime and prejudice. The young man with the contemptuous attitude was the result of a system that had let him down, a democratic belief in equality, a fair go for all, that had gone wrong.
‘Warren Preston,’ the youth said.
‘Mr Preston, thank you. You were in the cell cooling off after a night of drinking. Not like your people to drink, more often it’s ganja or ecstasy.’
‘It was my birthday. The boys took me to the pub.’
‘The boys range from fifteen up to twenty-three,’ Ross said, looking over at Isaac once again.
‘Not older?’
‘A few will end up in prison; some will die at the hands of another gang, or kill themselves with drugs. One even froze to death last winter when we had that cold snap.’
‘Is this relevant?’ the legal aid said.
‘I’m just setting the scene for DCI Cook. He’s not from around here; He operates out of Challis Street, up near Notting Hill, more your part of the world.’
‘Where I live is not relevant, my client is.’ A sharp rebuttal. The woman was all business, Isaac could see. No doubt efficient, almost certainly believed that Preston was of little worth, but she’d do her job.
‘All of you, ganging up on me. What chance do I have?’ Preston grabbed hold of his corner of the metal table, attempted to lift it in an act of defiance.
‘It’s bolted to the floor,’ Ross said. ‘You’re wasting your time. Now, why don’t you just sit there and tell your lawyer what you said to me last night? After you’ve done that we can take your statement, have you up before the magistrate and then find you a cosy cell in prison until your trial comes up.’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘If this is badgering my client, I can’t allow it,’ the legal aid said.
Bill Ross took no notice. It wasn’t Challis Street, and he was pushing hard, probably too hard, running the risk of a confession given under duress by a man who, if not illiterate, was clearly unable to understand the seriousness of the position he was in. Isaac had used the technique before, but he had had some evidence behind him; he hoped Ross did.
‘When you were hauled into the station, and I asked you about a man being knifed down near the Durham Arms, you told me that you knew about it.’
‘So what, everyone knows what goes on, and why worry? One of us dies, and you don’t care. And you, the black man, are you on his side?’ Preston said, looking over at Isaac.
‘I’m on the side of law and justice. The only problem in this room is you. I was with the dead man not long before he was killed. It could have been me; the question is should it have been, was it me they wanted?’
‘If I talk, what are you going to do?’
‘Are you willing to drop charges against my client if he cooperates?’ the lawyer said.
‘He’s here for public drunkenness. I’m willing to consider it.’
‘That’s a yes,’ the lawyer said, looking at her client.
‘Okay. It was the night he died. There was six of us. A man approached us.’
‘Describe him?’ Isaac said.
‘White, dressed like you.’
‘Well-spoken, educated? He should have been frightened. Why wasn’t he?’
‘He handed each of us a couple of fifty-pound notes, said there was more if we cooperated.’
‘Did you?’
‘Not me, but some of the others did.’
‘Which ones?’
‘I’ll not grass, not on the gang.’
‘Loyalty or fear?’
‘I don’t want to end up the same as that man, a knife in my gut, my balls stuffed in my mouth.’
‘He was knifed, not castrated.’
‘He wasn’t a member of our gang.’
‘Tell the police what they want, and we can get out of here,’ the lawyer said. ‘It’s getting late, and I have other clients to deal with.’
‘Canning Town?’ Isaac said.
‘Everyone has the right to justice, to legal representation, or don’t you believe in that?’
Isaac did, so did the lawyer, but she had no intention of remaining in the area any longer than necessary. She’d do what was required, but no more.
‘He said five hundred pounds to anyone who did what he wanted, no questions asked.’
‘Who agreed?’
‘I can’t remember.’
He was putty in Bill Ross’s hands. Warren Preston could have kept quiet, fronted the magistrate, received a fine, probably not paid it, but he wasn’t smart enough to realise that. His legal aid lawyer wasn’t about to interrupt him either. He was small fry, not worth more than a modest stipend to her. She would
